It is hard to imagine that we share the journey with someone coming in the opposite direction. Nevertheless, I think that this strange sharing is perhaps what best characterises our time.
45.2 | Transitions
A tree was cut down in the Iranian city of Kashmar in the year 861. A cypress. A holy cypress, revered by the faithful Zoroastrians of the region because they considered it once having grown from a branch that Zarathustra himself had brought down from Paradise and planted there.
The first time I flew across the Atlantic to England on a work visa was to catch a train from London Paddington Station to Exeter St. David’s.
‘You’re working on the rigs?’ one of the drillers from my camp asked, his voice heavy with surprise. ‘We assumed you were just with the camp. Respect hey, that’s awesome, we love having chicks actually on the rigs.’
Fresh from shaving, Bashir buttoned up his crisp shirt and straightened his collar. He’d have chai and then be off to Sopore’s Government Degree Boys College.
Transitions. The word conjures images of changes that are or are hoped to be smooth and orderly –childhood to maturity, day to night and night to day, the four seasons.