車窓 — Nice → Cannes

On the train out of Nice, I set up the camera to film the view from the window. When I watched it back, what it had caught, more than the sea, was my own hand, touching my chin the whole time.

People are always touching something. Spinning a pen between their fingers. Running a palm over a buzzed head again and again, as if checking how rough it is. Resting a hand between the jaw and the neck and tapping it lightly. In my case, my neck gets stiff, so I find myself kneading it. A spot on my cheek bothers me, and a finger drifts there.

None of these movements mean anything. But they never quite stop, either.

Maybe this is how we make our own small fluctuations. Like the flicker of a fire or the sound of waves: a rhythm neither too regular nor random. When the world outside doesn’t offer it, we supply it with our own bodies. And in doing so, little by little, we smooth out an unease we can’t put into words.

The interesting thing is that, meditating every day without fail, I’ve started to notice these movements. The moment my hand heads for my chin, I know: I’m about to touch it. And I notice the part of me that wants to stop.

Which makes me wonder. Perhaps there are times when we’re not only uneasy, but don’t even feel that we’re uneasy. This movement of the hand may be the proof.

Outside the window, a single palm tree drifted slowly by. My hand is still somewhere near my chin.