I'm standing in the security line at the Boston Logan International Airport. It is 5:37 a.m. and there is some sort of delay. The line is moving slowly. I am worried I will miss my flight.
I am paused right before I need to show the TSA agent my ID. There are too many people ahead of me— I need to wait. The agent reminds me and the people behind me that water bottles must be empty. She goes on about what we can do as we wait in line, and she says, "You can think about emptying your water bottles."
I don't have a water bottle, but I guess I can think about emptying one.
I imagine pouring a stream of water into the trash can ahead of me. I'm interrupted when I have to begin taking my shoes off and placing my belongings in the bin. I pick up a bin returning from its journey to find someone's passport. I go to hand it to the security officer; "No, this isn't my passport. Someone left it in a bin... Can I give it to you? It's not mine."
Not mine, not mine, not mine. Right now, this passport is not mine and neither is the tension in this security line. I am chill. I am cool. Right now, I am thinking about emptying a water bottle into a trash can.
As I'm putting my shoes back on, I return to my water bottle meditation. I don't like the idea of emptying water into the trash. I don't think water is something that should be wasted. My meditation morphs— now I am imagining pouring water into a stream. I am standing in the water, my feet are cold. I dip my hands into the water, cup them, bring them to my chest, and then allow the water to return to the stream where I first held it.
I think about this as I tie my shoes and breathe, relieved that I made it through security with time to get to my gate. I will move through the airport calmly like I know exactly where I am meant to be and how I am meant to move— like water in a stream.
I am in a stream. I am in the airport. I am here.