One of the more unnerving things about travelling is the burgeoning recognition that I am not the centre, that my life, my world, my little universe is just one of many headlong, slip-spinning.
There are good days and bad days but in the gripe of my irritations, my tantrums and rants, there are things to be learned.
There is an sort of humbling egalitarianism that dawns within me on long cold bus rides on hard seats, in the times when I am utterly ignored or shouted at, when it is quite clear that no one gives a damn. And oddly that can be beautiful.
There is a magic in knowing I am not so special, that we are all equally unique, equally lost, found, floundering, stretching, slogging on to hold strong in our own spinning centre.
I have fallen in love with a journey, with a life, with a question, and it is hard not to feel the prickle of tears when I realise there are hundreds of thousands walking unseen down other roads, hearts swelling.
Strangely it is in the moments when I feel most alone that I am most aware of my little place in a great company and my smallness, by fragility no longer seems to matter all that much.
The hard edge of ‘I’ drops away and there is life lived from a hundred extra angles. Every glimpse in the glass in different, fleeting, nothing, everything, valid. It is all plural, all messy mucky perfect. Our smallnesses can be magnificent.
I can be determined, even stubborn at times, and I really wanted to see those dinosaur tracks.
After trekking down a river bed, picking up stones in-printed with the lap of long dried up shores, I finally got to see some decent tracks high up on a valley wall.
I found myself thinking that I am just a spark, just a second, but I can still burn bright. I can still make my flit-flicker something beautiful..