For me, everything becomes simpler when I’m in motion. New ideas organically arise when I’m in transit between Setting A and Setting B, at ease.

In What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, Haruki Murakami observes motion to be a source of relief for the chronically independent. He muses, “Emotional hurt is the price someone has to pay for being independent,” which seems pretty reasonable, and rings true for me, and continues on to write, “I’ve had to constantly keep my body in motion, in some cases pushing myself to the limit, in order to heal the loneliness I feel inside and put it in perspective. Not so much as an intentional act, but as an instinctive reaction.” Wise words from a wise man.

So, for a plethora of reasons, whether it be in search of inspiration, ease, or relief, I always try to be in motion! And in those stretches of ease and movement, existing somewhere between meditation and presence, I notice the phrases running through the current between my ears. When I hear Fall’s a season so saturated with magic you should be able to drag a match along the breeze and watch it spark I can happily hum with appreciation and store it away for another time.

Descriptive language always occurs to me most naturally (and most magically) during moments of motion. Flying over New York at night, I can watch and write from my perch at the window seat; Iridescent amber beads, scattered and twinkling dimly below. Goldenrod pearls tumbled and half sunk in the oyster flesh of black velvet. Spinning delicate, glowing webs, pulsing through the dark landscape like fireflies. Headlights snake along far below, hugging highway river bends. Silently gliding forward, soft, smoky clouds dissipate as moonlight catches on quiet ponds, which flash into bright, blinding silver illumination in response, before slipping back into quiet darkness.

And of course such imagery then touches on my belief that golden threads connect us all, and prompts my own musing.

When my sister lived in Manhattan I could immediately perceive the ribbon that connected us each time I entered the borough. No matter where I was (and at the time I typically bopped around the Flat Iron District, where I worked in a coffee shop) I only had to turn my head uptown to feel the current of protection, support, and nostalgia that coursed through the air. The sensation was so palpable and present I felt as if I could pluck the string between us and send vibrations running along the length of its distance. After she moved out West, that thread stretched and, like the most malleable silly putty, thinned out to the breadth of a wire as it expanded.

Now instead of plucking the ribbon, I imagine beads of light traveling along the length of the wire. I fling myself above a map of the country, pin-point each final destination, and send little firelights across the fields, plains, and miles that sit between me and the people I love.

I imagine the spark slowly, steadily chugging along the wire. Gently gliding through evening gloam. And with patience and determination, each bead reaches Colorado. Chicago. Upstate New York.

Anyway, this is just a small look at how my mind works, and an ode to being in transit! Writing out built up thoughts helps clear the way for new ideas fly through and take root, so I’m going to try to continue expressing them here!

Now back to job hunting!