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 Lost In The Transit of Life

People arriving and leaving, their faces a mosaic of emotions—some heavy with sadness, others bright with excitement. Luggage in all shapes and sizes are scattered, like puzzle pieces waiting to find their places in the world. Airports are strange spaces, a threshold  of transient destinations where nobody stays, but everyone passing through.

I work here, surrounded by people moving toward something, or leaving something behind – in the middle of somewhere.

Just as I am. 

A few days ago, a colleague shares her excitement over her impending retirement, her plans of travelling the world. Another peer tells us about her small kids and how busy she is  raising her family. Different reasons for different seasons, each with their own roles and purpose.

With makes me question myself - where I am exactly?   

I am neither young nor old. 

I am married, technically, but I live alone.

I have kids but they are far and living their own.

After almost twenty years in the same job, the monotony has grown molds in me. I am grateful for the security of my work and provisions, but I feel that I have nothing more to prove in my career.

So where am I at this point?  Ot better yet, who am I?

I call myself an empty- nester- single- mom slash middle -age- working woman slash trying hard writer slash hobbyist painter? Uhm.    

Some days like this one, I feel lost, with no clear sense of direction, drowning in the middle of nowhere.

(photo by andy-beales @unsplash) 

The poem of Dan Brown resonates –

                                                                                         .             .             .

LOST

By Dan Brown

(excerpts)

 Lost in a world, that scares me to death,

Lost in a crowd, I'm losing my breath.

Lost as a boy (girl), lost as a man (woman),

I need to grow up, don't think I can.

Lost as a person, can't find my way.

Lost in life, every day.

Lost in worry, who am I?

All my life, I've lived a lie.

Lost to kindness, lost to love,

Lost in a sky, like a new-born dove.

Lost in thought, which I shouldn't do,

It winds me up, I can't get through.

Lost to comfort, all kind words,

Lost to advice, it isn't heard.

Lost to those who really care,

All these people, always there.

Lost in me, I need a break,

Lost in wonder, which road to take?

Lost in a place I don't know well,

Where are you now? There's no one to tell.

.             .             .

Stranded in the Terminal

In The Terminal (2004), Tom Hanks plays Viktor Navorski, a man from a fictional Eastern European country who becomes stranded at JFK Airport when his homeland’s government collapses. Unable to enter the U.S. or return to his now nonexistent country, he’s forced to live in the airport terminal—a space meant for brief transitions.  He makes a life in the in-between, lingering in a place where no one is meant to stay.

How many of us feel like this? Trapped in our own personal terminals, unable to go back to the safety of where we came from, yet too uncertain or unprepared to move forward?

"I am delayed", says Viktor.  Like many of us, our journey paused indefinitely, paralyzed by doubt, fear, or circumstances beyond our control. We’re neither at the beginning nor at the end, but somewhere in the middle, where the future is murky and the past unreachable.

In one poignant moment, Viktor says to Amelia (Catherine Zeta-Jones), “I wait for 9 months. I’ve been waiting my whole life.”

How often do we wait in this same kind of limbo, hoping for a breakthrough, waiting for something or someone to push us forward, to tell us that it's time to leave the terminal behind and get on with the real journey?

We are all, at some point, Viktor Navorski.

We wait for the right job, the right relationship, the right opportunity, believing that the moment to move forward is just out of reach.

We watch  others come and go, wondering when our flight will finally be called.

                                                                                       .             .             .

There I Shall Have Some Peace    

Maybe it’s not about arriving at some final somewhere, but rather about finding peace in the journey itself, in the transitions, the mistakes, the uncertainties, and the spaces in between.

The airport terminal isn't a dead end—it’s a waypoint, a moment to catch our breath, gather our strength, and prepare ourselves for the next chapter.

We chase singular ideals – the one job, the one place- believing that once we find them, we will be settled, complete, whole. But life rarely works that way. Instead, our lives are built from many iterations—every wrong turn, every misstep, every choice that didn’t quite land where we wanted it to. It is through these detours that we gain clarity. Every mistake sharpens our vision, helping us see more clearly where we want to go next.

Like standing in an airport terminal, unsure of my next flight, perhaps the journey is not about finding "the one" after all. It’s about embracing the multiplicity of experiences that shape us, trusting that each stage, each somewhere, serves its purpose in bringing us closer to the fullness of ourselves.

Viktor’s said - “Home. I wait.” In the end, Viktor does leave the terminal, no longer the same man. He has grown, transformed by his time in-between.

(photo by molly-porter @unsplash) 

I want to believe that this waiting season is  not in vain, that this journey is worth it, that I am exactly where I am meant to be.

I am reminded of one of my most favorite poems of WB Yeats,  The Lake Isle of Innisfree. It   speaks for the longing for a place of quiet and rest, where the soul can find refuge from the noise of the world.

Even in the middle of somewhere, may I gather purpose. May I wait and find peace in the process of becoming – even if they come dropping slow…..

.             .             .

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

By William Butler Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

.             .             .

As we move along......

Rebirths take time, patience. One pace, one second at a time.  

.             .             .

Thank you for reading my essay. My name is Abigail Ortega. I write warm, poignant essays and short stories. I also paint simple artworks. If you like to read more of my work, you may join our newsletter here: https://afto.myflodesk.com/qj13kigo4b.

A.Ortega