Out the Window

My legs carried me through the narrow aisle of the train. Darting my eyes from left to right, I scanned for an isolated area. Boisterous figures spewed from the cabin doors as I passed. Each cabin seemed unappealing as the previous one, filled to the brim with commotion. As I neared the end of the train, still seeking the best choice, I settled in the third cabin from the back on the left side. Inside, there were six seats, three on each side. Only one remained, next to the window. Stumbling over passengers, I muttered apologies. Finally, landing in a seated position, I examined the strangers surrounding me.

Seated next to me were a disheveled mother and her crying child. The child seemed to be around two years old and was inconsolable. The mother, still wearing residual spit up, emphatically hushed her daughter. Closest to the cabin door sat a gray-haired man with a potbelly producing phlegmy coughs. Each cough was more aggressive than the previous one as if he was striving for one mega-cough that ultimately made his throat feel clear. I felt relieved to have been as far away from his fits of illness as possible. Immediately across from me, a married couple obnoxiously argued about the likelihood of missing a connecting train at our destination. The blame game made me cringe. I wondered how they allowed themselves to end up in such a stressful situation. To avoid any divergence from my plans, I had masterfully scheduled my trip.

The purpose of my journey is to meet with a client in Helena about partnering with my architectural design firm in Idaho. I boarded the train at 3 pm in Sandpoint and was supposed to arrive in East Glacier Park in six hours. Upon arrival, I need to rent a car and drive three more hours South into Helena. Since I would not be departing the train until 9 pm, I booked a night at the Whistling Swan Motel, deciding it was best to drive in the morning.

Given the daunting journey ahead, I had hoped to relax on the train ride. The characters surrounding me made me feel sick. The coughs, tears, spit, and anger was overwhelmingly human. Attempting to detach from the calamity, I leaned my head against the window. Rhythmic bumps in the road sent a pounding sensation through my skull. 

Contrastingly to the disorder on the train, the beautiful Montana countryside rolled by slowly outside. I tried to focus on the outdoors, the expansive plains, and the cloudless sky, but I noticed myself feeling nervous at the vast endlessness of the countryside. The scenes appeared to move along too leisurely. I longed to see some landmark to clarify my interpretation of where we were and how much travel time remained. 

Following a particularly violent cough from the man diagonal from me, I opened my eyes. Rest was of no use, so I mentally planned out the rest of my week. 

I deliberated about the projects I had taken on at work and brainstormed at least ten emails I needed to send out. The commotion in my mind was as loud as that of my surroundings. I contemplated the stress of never feeling like I was doing enough. How asymptotic 'enough' seemed to be. I constantly strive for that feeling, a sense of satisfaction that would grant me inner peace. I exhaust myself, day by day, but never quite get close enough to reach it. 

With me, I carry documents and sketches. As a designer, I feel that my work is never adequately complete. I am attuned to small details in projects since they determine my overall satisfaction in my work. I am skilled at what I do, but it consumes me. Even in my day-to-day life, small details seem to overarch. Although focusing on nuances deepens my appreciation of beauty, it prevents me from looking at anything as a whole. I scrutinize everything to perfection, down to each atom. 

I woke around 7 pm, unaware I had fallen asleep. Even the child had stopped crying. The entire train felt quieter than it had earlier. It was almost peaceful, as if a communal sense of giving up overtook us all, as we were silently awaiting our destination. Rather than maxing out the train experience, we were all just hoping to pass another hour. Sleep was the best way to do that. I have always loved waking up and knowing a chunk of travel time has passed. The flash of peace was abruptly broken by the booming voice of the conductor, announcing that due to inclement weather the trip would take an additional hour. The child stirred and began crying again, and the commotion just as suddenly resumed. Panic turned my blood cold. I had given the Motel a specific check-in time and informed my manager that I would call him by 9 pm to update my trip status. The couple, also woken by the announcement, began arguing again. The coughing resumed, the crying resumed, and the sense of frustration among those of us trapped on the train grew stronger. 

Finally, the train came to a halt in East Glacier Park. The journey took seven and a half hours instead of six, and I was late. Glancing down at my watch I recoiled at the sight of 10:30 pm. The stillness of the train made the chaos around me sound louder. Bodies shuffled, collecting their cargo and stretching stiff limbs. The married couple gathered their belongings and departed first, without speaking. As they shoved through the door, the coughing man followed hurriedly. He grabbed a box of cigarettes from the right pocket of his jeans, leaving only the woman and child. Since I was further from the door, I feigned patience and allowed them to exit first. The woman shoved a clutter of toys and miscellaneous supplies into a large bag. Stepping through the aisle, I noticed all of the cabins littered with trash. I could not believe how many things people left behind. 

At last, I breathed in the refreshing chilly air. The Montana cold activated my senses, my quest continued. I had already located the rental car area and was hurrying to accomplish the next portion of my journey. 

Once I acquired the rental car, I felt better. I regained a sense of control as I started the engine and drove towards the Whistling Swan Motel. I had chosen a lodge with WiFi to work on the projects still lingering in the back of my mind. The radio in the car was busted. Resounding silence made me feel uneasy, the same way the vast countryside did. Boarding the highway, I focused on the low hum of the engine. Adrenaline pumped uselessly through my veins since all I had to focus on now was the road. Suddenly I was overwhelmed by intense emotion. Everything felt futile. Unable to stick to the schedule I had masterfully planned, I was infuriated. It was nonsensical, but I was enraged. Although this was only a minor deviation from my original plan, I felt the collapse of my world. Letting out a strangled sob, I approached the exit for the Motel. My head felt cloudy and full. Tightly clutching the steering wheel, I wished to start over. With unlimited chances, I was confident I could have done better. Returning my focus to which direction I was to go, my heart dropped. I had accidentally passed by the exit. 

The distraction had overtaken me. I never allow myself to make mistakes. A single deviation from perfection tainted the whole. Hopelessly, I veered off on another exit, towards the scenic part of East Glacier Park. I knew I could turn around and still arrive at the Motel before 11:30 pm, but my blood was boiling with rage. Rather than blaming the train's lateness, I felt I was at fault. This wrath was at me, and I felt compelled to worsen my mistakes. Deliberately exceeding the speed limit, veins pumping with adrenaline, I drove further away from the Motel. 

I screeched to a halt on a desolate scenic overlook and stopped the engine. Exiting the car, I stared directly into the vastness of nature. Emotion welled up inside me until I let out a despairing scream at nothing. Bellowing with every fiber of my being, I yelled until I felt empty. My voice echoed in the distance as if the world had responded to me. I listened. Gazing out at the sloping hills painted against the night, I was overwhelmed. The sky glistened with bright balls of fire, millions of miles away. The stars did not care. They did not hear me screaming at them until my throat was raw. They were entirely indifferent to this intensity of emotion that I was capable of feeling. Everything is so helplessly out of my control and makes me so furious, and the stars do not care. Tirelessly, I try to perfect myself for life, without realizing it is incapable of experiencing me. 

Again, I felt futile. Except now, I stopped and laughed. My worries seemed trivial, and I felt a concurrent calm. I remembered the people on the train and welcomed a peculiar sense of brotherhood among them. I pitied the man addicted to cigarettes, uncontrollably coughing. I understood the couple, also agonizing about being late, desperately trying to ascribe meaning through their blame. I wanted to embrace the tired woman who could not get her child to settle. All of us were the same under the stars. All of us were as futile as the next. I felt an Earth-shaking change in my perspective as if I only just opened my eyes. 

Habitually, I started noticing details. The somewhat sweet smell of nature in the countryside, the dots of dew on the grass that sustain my feet, the sensation of warmth from my clothes, the stars like hole punches of light in otherwise infinite blackness. My world fell away, or at least the one that I had fought so hard to construct. Outstretching my arms, I closed my eyes and molded into my surroundings. I stopped fighting, and with a deep breath out, I felt acceptance.