The whistle blew, sharp and clear, cutting through the crisp morning air. I stood on the platform, suitcase in hand, ready to board the train. Its destination? I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that I needed to go, to explore, to find something—perhaps something I already had but couldn’t quite see.
The train itself was an elegant thing, timeless and steady, with an air of familiarity. As I stepped aboard and found my seat by the window, the train began to move, its rhythmic motion soothing and constant, like the heartbeat of a quiet world.
The First Station: The House
The train slowed, and the conductor called out, “First stop: The House.” I stepped off the train and found myself standing in front of a familiar building—my house.
The walls were sturdy, the roof weathered but intact. I opened the door and walked through the rooms, noticing the little marks of life scattered everywhere—the worn carpet in the living room, the cluttered kitchen counter, the stack of books on my bedside table. This was my house, my physical home, the place where I slept and stored my things.
And yet, as I walked its halls, I felt a strange sense of detachment. It was mine, but it wasn’t me. It was comforting, but it wasn’t permanent. I could sell it, leave it, and yet I would still exist. This home was a container for my life, but it wasn’t the essence of it
Hearing the train whistle in the distance, I turned back and boarded again, the house receding behind me as we moved on.
“Next stop: The Body,” the conductor called, and I stepped off once more.
This time, I wasn’t in a building but standing in front of a mirror. My reflection stared back at me—a body I’ve known my entire life. It was familiar yet ever-changing, shaped by time and care and, at times, neglect.
I touched my hand, felt the warmth of my skin, the beat of my pulse. This was my true house, the one I couldn’t leave behind. My body was my constant companion, my vehicle for moving through the world.
But as I stood there, I realized something else: my body was both resilient and fragile. It could heal itself, yes, but it also aged, broke down, and would one day cease to be. It wasn’t me, not entirely. It was the vessel, the home I carried with me, but it wasn’t the full story.
The whistle called again, and I boarded, the train pulling me forward.
“Third stop: The Mind.”
At this station, I found myself stepping into a vast, bustling marketplace. Ideas, memories, and thoughts swirled around me like vendors calling out their wares. My mind was a lively place, always moving, always changing.
I wandered through the stalls, picking up a thought here, examining a memory there. My mind felt like the keeper of my story, the narrator of my life. But as I lingered, I noticed how fickle it could be. Thoughts came and went like passing clouds. Emotions surged and faded like waves on the shore.
The marketplace was vibrant, but it wasn’t home. It was a reflection of something deeper, a mirror showing glimpses of who I might be. I left the market, boarded the train once more, and continued the journey.
The train slowed, and the conductor called, “Fourth stop: The Observer.”
This station was quiet. I stepped into a room filled with nothing but a single chair facing a large window. I sat down, looking out, and realized that I was watching everything—my body, my mind, my experiences—play out before me.
This was the part of me that didn’t move, didn’t change. It simply observed. It felt closer to home than anything I had encountered so far. The observer was steady, a presence that remained when everything else fell away. But even here, I wondered—was this the final stop? Or was there something beyond even this?
The train’s whistle was softer now, almost like a whisper. “Final stop: The Source.”
I stepped off into a vast, open field. There were no buildings, no mirrors, no bustling stalls. There was only stillness, an expanse so wide it seemed to stretch beyond existence itself.
Here, there was no sense of “I” or “mine.” There was no body, no mind, no observer. There was only the presence of being itself—an emptiness that wasn’t empty, a fullness that wasn’t full.
This was the source, the space from which everything arose and to which everything returned. It wasn’t a place I could live in, not fully. But it was the foundation of all homes, the ultimate origin.
The Return
The train whistled once more, and I boarded, feeling lighter now. Each station had shown me something important, and yet I knew I wasn’t meant to stay at any one stop. The train was always moving, just like life itself.
As I sat by the window, watching the world blur past, I realized something: home wasn’t any one place. It wasn’t the house, the body, the mind, or even the source. Home was the journey itself—the constant flow of leaving and returning, forgetting and remembering.
And so, I rode the train, knowing that wherever it took me, I was always, in some way, already home.
Spiritual Gravity 