THE ONLY TIME I start to get philosophical about ‘home and away’ is when I’m at an international airport, train station, or bus station. Crossing borders. Time and again. This seems to be the story of my life: frazzled and diffident, scruffy suitcases in hand and popping-off handles, the bungle of disorganization that I’ve no one to blame anything on but myself, and the relief at arriving where I am: moments ago, I sat down, and here I am. About to get on the next leg of the next journey to the next place to the next things. Things to come are many and multi-faceted, perhaps ten-sided, like string theories and multi-verses and courageous, real, and upturned stones. We start where we are. We go when we are ready. The only one to decide what ‘the first step’ is will be us, each of us, as we think, or learn to not-think, and rather, go with the feeling. Or the flow, as the river by my summer residence showed by example. Wu-wei and the cosmos, the Dao, the whole thing. I’m reminded of Pirsig’s Lila, maybe a little late to the news that he died, and as I take this seat and sip the first water I’ve had all day, I’m letting it sink in. The person who wrote the book that inspired the 2013 ‘Year of Uncertainty’ project is no longer with us, in this realm. But maybe in the one between worlds, where we can psychically and dream-state dance within. Jung and the whole. Bohm and Krishnamurthi. Dialogues, rhythms, pent-up things dissipating. I had a giant philosophical conversation with two people today, in a quick succession, and I had promised myself I would not dally on my way to the airport. Last time I did that I missed my flight from Bangkok to Phnom Penh; a conversation got in the way, a woman with yellow feathery earrings and great green pants, from Rio, she said, and we had coffee in the sun for a little bit too long of a lingering-over conversation. This time, I was to get here early. I did not. Boarding now. Going to get on the plane. Here’s to new beginnings, the stories, and the next.