Like thousands of others around the country and throughout the Bay, I, too, made the pilgrimage up to Oregon for the total solar eclipse. As someone who is both fiscally irresponsible and a victim of San Francisco rent prices, I was pretty proud of myself travel-hacking the shit out of this trip to my wallet’s benefit.
Granted, this meant that instead of flying from San Francisco to Oregon, I had flown from San Francisco to Seattle (for $12!), where I crashed on a stranger-who-became-my-best-friend’s couch for the night before taking the bright and early Coast Starlight train down to Portland. But hey, I only had to pay for the train ticket, and I was seeing the eclipse!
This essay…is not about the eclipse. It is about something much more mundane, but for some reason, it stuck with me, thanks to the conglomeration of the lonely, wine-inspired thoughts I had while returning on the train.
On my way back to Seattle from Portland, the evening sun poured light into the train, and made it seem as though the cushions and interior of the locomotive were melting into the salty ripples of the Puget Sound beneath the tracks. Sitting alone, I began to ask myself stupid questions — what do you think is dirtier, the bay outside my window, or the seats made warm by many an asscheek on this train?
I’ll admit, in this moment, I was a little wine drunk, alone, and I wondered — if you were with someone you trusted right now, what would you say is on your mind? What would you tell them about this world outside your window?
From the moving train, in my view are the black shadows cast by the sun upon nearby trees, just transparent enough to make out the details of the leaves between the dark sheet draped over. Two islands of firs, parted by a glittering straight of sea which carves into layers of mountain ranges painted behind like coats of watercolor dripping onto a hazy, warm canvas.
But the bay outside does not move, or at least not at a pace for us to notice. But this absence of movement, it’s beautiful — almost objectively so. Stillness. Peace. Dark specks of people sprinkled below a horizon of clouds and birds dancing across a sherbet-colored sky. A sunrise will always be followed by a sunset. As someone who seeks out change, I am humbled by this exhibition of predictability that still manages to take my breath away.
It’s funny to think of beauty and perspective relative to an object’s movement, or lack thereof. What is it that draws us to this pattern of hasty change? Why are we always aiming to move faster than before? Where is it we are trying to go? Is it really better to see it all, in a rush, or is it only stopping that really allows for deep appreciation, for self-reflection?
Think again of this train. And now think of its relationship with the bay. This train — a spectacle of metal, strength, speed, and ingenuity — this train has seen the entire West Coast, arguably one of the most exquisite paths of travel that remains within this self-destructive, pain-stricken country of ours. But this bay has always been here, and it is so beautiful that it doesn’t need to do anything but be.
How many times has the train summoned this dream voyage? Likely more than we could count — seems pretty incredible, right?
Now ask yourself, would you rather travel the coast endlessly, moving as quickly as possible back and forth between Point A and Point B? Sure, this train has bragging rights of its own — the Coast Starlight, what a proud and grand name. But what did Mr. Starlight actually see? A blur of colors along the way? Is it the countless number of trips that deserve praise, or does quantity and recurrence actually depreciate the experience?
We live in a world that requires us to constantly navigate through a sea of contradictions. Which side of this paradox guides you? From which well do you dig to find your source of truth? Can you really know if you’re moving too fast to tear apart these intertwined contrasts?
Maybe we’re all moving too fast. Maybe I need to stop asking so many of these unanswerable questions. My habits led me to question even that previous statement. And that one, too. Yet again, the ensuing thought swimming in my head ends with a question mark.
Alas, I now can’t even remember what the original question was. This mental game of flipping these natural inquisitive tendencies into definitions statements makes me realize how often I question how it is I fit in this elaborate puzzle of a world. Is this useful? Maybe we ask these questions to direct the focus away from doing — to trick ourselves into a pseudo-philosophical façade. It tends to be difficult to make decisions if you are always searching for an answer to many open-ended “why” or “how” questions wandering through your mind.
It’s no doubt that many questions have led to some of the most important answers for individual growth, as well as mankind. But we should be wary to descend into a rabbit hole of inquisitions. It’s important to remain conscious of maintaining a balance, and to understand if your questioning propels you in your intended direction or if it simply acts as a distraction through which you buy yourself time. A deliberate attempt to shield you from what’s outside your field of view — your comfort zone. Like our train that’s moving so fast up and down the coast, but off the tracks is a beautiful, yet frightening, world unknown.
I look over my right shoulder and peer out through a new window. On the other side of the train, shadows are now laid upon the trees, as dusk softens its lips to gently kiss the end of this sultry August day goodnight. Welcome back, sweet golden hour.
If I could, I’d seal this glow in a jar. Sometimes we all could use this light to keep us lifted as we move throughout our days. It’s the curse of the routine — your alarm goes off, you wish for more sleep. You rush through the morning — is it lunchtime yet? You can do it — you’ll get through the day. Each minute passes, your energy depletes. Life is fleeting, but you’re tired. Here you are, yearning for your bed.
But upon return of the golden hour, we forget about all of this. A little bit like seeing a total eclipse. The sun closes its eyes to share its light. This light is now within you, and time stands still once again. Feelings akin to your first love seep their way in. The temperature drops, but this light — it’s warm and fills you with gratitude for the moments that led you here, the moments that led you to whatever this is that you’re feeling right now.
Time speeds back up as you regain your center and the light tucks itself away. Regardless of the day before, this warmth always passes, but always with promises to return again. This golden hour — it’s our oldest and most reliable friend.
How you choose to spend your hours between all of the golden ones — that, my friend, is only yours to make.
