The Beacon

Technically, the journey hasn’t started yet. We’re sitting at the gate, not yet airborne, not yet moving towards our destination. The plane isn’t even here yet. We are static.

Behind me, a family has started a game of Scattergories. They gather around, sitting in the airport terminal chairs and on the industrially carpeted ground. The letter for this round is D. 
“Dryer.” 
“Dishwasher.”
“Dishwater. Nobody thought of dishwater.”
“Dilly dally. Do I get a double for dilly dally?” They move through several more rounds. It’s unclear who’s winning. 

Across from me, a middle-aged woman grabs a gallon ziplock bag from her carry-on. It’s filled with cashews, almonds, pecans, and such. She offers some to her husband, and chuckles as she remarks on the unusually large size of the bag; “I couldn’t find a smaller one.” Her husband chuckles as well and eats a handful of the pre-flight snack. 
Throughout the terminal, a women’s college basketball team mingles in groups of two or three. They’re easily identified by the brilliant orange color of their sweatshirts and backpacks. Some teammates talk, some laugh, and some braid each other's hair— a very sisterly gesture. 

Each of us here at the gate is on our own journey, with different starting points and destinations, different objectives and perspectives. And yet, for this one moment, our separate journeys intersect. We are not really static—each of our small journeys is playing out here at the gate. When we look around, we can see a slice of the lives of those around us. We are all embarking on journeys, side by side.