Do you believe in destiny?

Do you believe that there is one path and that whichever decisions you make are the decisions you were made to make?

What happens at the end of

along the way

the paths you never chose?

the paths you chose not to choose?

I am on a train to East Grinstead. I slept three nights in London. London is a city that makes three nights feel at once like a lifetime and a blink of the eyes; with so much to see and so many eyes by which to be seen and so many moving parts and a history so seemingly long-standing that the houses have spread and sprawled like the roots of a grand old tree in dry dry dry soil, London is a place where no one cares.

How can you take the time to care when you have so many places to be?

What does it do to the human nervous system, all those passing faces and no time to kiss them?

to hold them?

to breathe with them?

Almost three hours ago, a very best friend and I lugged five bags between the both of us to the Duke of York’s theater to watch Shifters*

Almost four hours ago, she asked for my camera and told me to pose on the big red bus. She turned a wretched ride through traffic into a giggling mess of fun.

I’d like you to know that there does not exist a world in which I would ever make the scene we two made at the front of the line to the theater, outside the box office, or on the 38 bus to wherever we even went

if I was alone.

There are very few people I would make these scenes for.

There aren’t many things I wouldn’t do for this woman.

In London, I see, from atop the big red bus, people in sweats, people in suits, black women hand-in-hand with white men, white women hand-in-hand with black women, people in hats, plantains splayed out across the pavement; a tribute to yesterday’s carnival celebrations; women in hard-hats cutting hedges into spheres.

And so many cities have tried to become this city.

And no one cares about me in this city.

I thought this until

I sat to have dinner with two cherished friends and became blinded by a migraine, isolated by pain. At least three people cared to see me heal; one of them brought me edamame and Panadol, both of which I requested, one of which took more guts than the other.

Can you help me feel better?

(A vulnerable question we are maybe all asking of one another in not so many words)

I know he cared because he asked again, later, before I paid him for the edamame, if I was feeling any better. And he brought me extra water. And his eyes seemed kind.

So, the city may care.

Maybe I must ask the city to care.

I do not want to be alone in this. Please can you help me feel less alone in this.

My granny lives outside of London, one hour by train to East Grinstead. My blood is here, near-enough to this city.

Like the air trapped inside an empty plastic bottle in the seat-back pocket at your knees, I escape at cruising altitude. I gasp for breath, I audibly exhale; I contort the shape of my container, begging to be released, begging to land. My soul is made of dense stuff invisible to the eye.

My soul takes up space you would never know needed occupying if the container never climbed.

I do not know where I belong or what I

“want to do with my life”

but I know that boarding a flight to Mallorca makes me feel like myself again.

It matters, too, that I have paid for the flight. and the train. and the boots on my feet and the denim around my legs.

Anne, who brought me to the airport from my gran’s place, gave me the advice I wanted to hear

Do what you want to do while you’re young

which feels oh so different from

what do you want to do with your life?

And it matters, too, that Anne was paid with crisp notes from my granny’s pocketbook. And I did not buy a single meal on my short stay. And I did not pay for a bed.

Maybe no one in London cares about me.

But someone in East Grinstead does.

and as much as I want to prove to everyone that I can do everything on my own

it feels nice to be cared for.

I come from strong female bones. I come from women who have compromised despite their way being the right way. I come from married women, divorced women, widowed women. I come from women who know how to handle their own bags at the airport. I come from women who have travelled more than 90 countries and can say ‘hello’ in at least 20 languages.

My first solo air travel came long-awaited at 18 years-old. I flew to meet my parents in Rome before heading to Egypt for a family wedding. My connection took me through Frankfurt on Lufthansa. It was springtime and I bought a pretzel in the airport.

And I did it

alone

and there were people on the other side waiting for me. waiting to hear about my pretzel, too.

I take immense pride in doing things on my own. Right now, having recently observed how urgently some important women in my life boast

look what I did without anyone’s help

look what I can do

my own determination makes sense as it settles in my body.

Until You Know Better

Release your desperate urge to prove yourself. No one cares. And also maybe they do. If you ask them to.

Get somewhere warm

Great Artists Steal

See Shifters and get familiar with Benedict Lombe