I’m sitting on a train.
I have just left Ottawa after seeing colleagues present our joint project, the culmination of six months of work. Though the project was well received I feel drained, and perhaps a tad disappointed. It’s always unfortunate when you finish something and the most prominent emotion is relief.
I’m on my way to Kingston to visit my grandmother.
My flight to Ottawa and my hotel was paid for by the project sponsor. It feels faintly ridiculous, after the fact, $1,500 and three days spent so I could watch a one-hour presentation in person. Even if I was one of the main contributors, even though I had felt so proud to be going on a paid business trip.
My grandmother is just out of hospital.
I have finished three books in the last three days, the last one mere minutes ago. The Forty Rules of Love, by Elif Shafak. It is a story of love and death and kindness, and it has certainly contributed to my maudlin mood. Modern travel engenders this kind of heartthrob, I think. In a strange way it is one of the few times that we are entirely at leisure.
I am visiting my grandmother because it is convenient, because I am in the area. But, as I stare out the window at the passing trees, I feel that this second leg of my journey matters more. It certainly means a lot to my grandmother, still frail and sore after her time in the hospital. Each visit feels Schrödinger, like it could be the last time I see her.
I feel frail myself, as the tension of the past few months starts to leak out of me. How does one master the art of living life without getting lost in it? How can you seek justice without anger, or success without pride?
The train stops. I disembark, having arrived at my next false distinction.
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