Clickety-Clack (A Reflection Towards The Parliament) 122.2.15;70;1.12

Clickety-Clack.

There is an absence of any 1 perfect position.  I learn that arduous lesson on the long train ride to the Parliament.

Recline backwards with feet on the floor and legs become fidgety.  Rest the feet upon the foot rest, and the knees begin to hurt.  Twist the body and legs across the adjacent vacant seat, and the back begins to ache.  Lay across the 2 seats with the head on the armrest and the neck begins to crink.  It becomes a traveller’s waltz of rotating through each of these positions just to alleviate the most urgent discomfort and to try to get some shut-eye.

And to be sure, the train manufacturer makes a concerted effort to provide the passenger with comfort.  The seats are comparatively wide, with comfortable cushion material.  The seats recline past 45 degrees, providing increased horizontalation.  There is also a leg rest that folds up flat against the seat to allow for the outstretching of the legs.  That, combined with the sparse number of travellers (due to lack of public subsidising, infrastructure, and strategic development), should make for the most comfortable of journeys.

I observe my fellow travellers in our cabin.  And each 1 seems to be able to find rest within just 1 position:  predominantly reclined back with, or without, the leg rest.  I seem to vaguely recall being able, at some historic point, to muster that discipline;  but today, it seems a faded memory.  Perhaps my unrest is a condition of my obesity, frequently having to impose my frame in comparatively modest circumstances.  Perhaps it is a part of my mixed ethnicity.  Perhaps it is the result of a mental disposition, finding difficulty acclimating to any 1 spot.

In the meanwhile, my travelling companion across the aisle gives me shame.  She abstains from saying anything to me;  she simply lies quietly in her reclined slumber.  But I can hear my guilty conscience, as my feet are disrespectfully stretched out in her direction.  She is an elder and deserves better.  And me with my shoes removed and kippah-turban:  what kind of ambiguously, counter-culture religious man am I to lie within such an un-masculine position.  I am doing my best, Aunty.

I return the seat to an upright position, break out me pen and pad, and turn on the light.  And I think about the undefinable nature of my Mystic spirituality.  I find home in the compassion, familiarity, and expanse of Christianity, until the Trinity, the judgmentalism, and the fatalism preclude me from resting.  I find home in the ancestry, the wisdom, and the traditions of Judaism, until the elitism and militarism preclude me from resting.  I find home in the acceptance, the Theology, and the teachings of Hinduism, until the mention of deities, the practice of idols, and the caste system preclude me from resting.  I find home in the serenity, the honesty, and the diplomacy of Buddhism, until the denial of God, the renunciation, and the hierarchy preclude me from resting.  I find home in the sincerity, the discipline, and the camaraderie of Islam, until the rigidity, the exclusionism, and the subordination preclude me from resting.  And I find home within the Baha’i, Taoism, Native traditions, and additionally, until the “us vs them” doctrine emerges and attempts unduly subjugating me according to the biases of conventional authority figures (which I guess includes myself).

So I find my home in the traveller’s waltz.  And I also find that I am other than that tired anyway.  I have energy.  As I settle to lay within this gathering, I notice that many travellers are also engaged within this waltz.  And, indeed ever traveller must adjust 1’s position, from moment to moment, to gain some form of rest.  It seems the lesson to learn is to have patience and empathy with each other as we travel together.  And perhaps we can even strike up a friendly conversation with each other whilst we are awake.