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The train stops and the driver apologises for the delay. I glance through the dirty window at a fairly depressing scene outside. Not quite wasteland, marginal. A fenced compound bit of a track, broken concrete, some scrubby trees.
Today find your digital chapel, your personal sacred space
Comes to mind, not much chance of that here.
I notice and name a few plants, the rose-bay-willowherb, gone to seed waving in the winter wind.
For a moment I focus on the branches of the scrubby willow. There is a quiet joy to the pattern of branches flowing like a delta, recalling other complexities and at the same time quietening things down. I am slumped and twisted in my seat, I start to breath.
A minute later I am reading my phone, a Medium post about Sweet Jane. The space has closed.