Early this morning I woke up, but not all the way. I was in that in-between place—half asleep, half awake, and just aware enough to notice it. Three semis in a row: semi-conscious, semi-awake, semi-aware.
Part of me was still inside the dream. Part of me was lying in bed watching it fade. And another part of me was trying to slip back into it, the way you try to step back onto a train that has just begun to pull out of the station.
Sometimes it worked. I could drift back in. The dream would pick up again, but not exactly where it left off. It was like another chapter—similar scenery, same general story, but the details had shifted.
While I was lying there, a picture came to mind.
Life is like a railroad line. The body is the track, stretching from the beginning of life to the end. The self—the ego—is the train, moving along that track from one station to another. Out the windows is the scenery of life: thoughts, reactions, worries, pleasures, plans, regrets. Sometimes I jump off at a station and wander around inside a story for a while. Sometimes I just watch the landscape roll by.
Most of the time I feel as if I am the train.
But every once in a while—like in that half-dreaming moment in the morning—I catch a glimpse of something quieter underneath the whole thing.
The track.
The track isn’t rushing anywhere.
It isn’t worried about the scenery.
It just supports the whole journey.
I think of that track as awareness.
When I notice it, even briefly, it gives me something small to carry into the rest of the day. Later on I’ll be making coffee, answering messages, bumping into the ordinary frustrations of a day, and I’ll try to remember the picture.
The train keeps moving.
There’s an old saying, often connected to King Solomon, that I sometimes repeat to myself: This too shall pass.
When I remember that, I notice how the scenery changes. A dark tunnel shows up in the window for a while. Then it’s gone. A bright stretch of countryside appears. Then that passes too.
When I catch myself getting stuck in whatever happens to be in the window, I try to remember: the train is still moving.
And when I remember the quiet track underneath it all, something else softens a little. I don’t feel quite so tangled in the passing scenery—mine or anyone else’s.
That’s usually the moment when I ease back a little.
A little more patience.
A little more kindness.
Sometimes even a small, spontaneous sense of compassion—for myself, for whoever happens to be sharing the train for a while.
The journey doesn’t stop. The scenery keeps changing.
But remembering the track helps me ride it a little more gently. 🚂
Spiritual Gravity 