Staring out of the window, she watched the backyard orchards of tropical fruit—bananas, guavas, lemons—speed by in a blur. She entertained herself by trying to focus on not focusing on the trees whizzing by, as the train climbed higher and higher into the volcanic moonscape of the mountains. While the out-of-focus landscape was a strain on the eyes, the open carriage windows delighted the nose as tropical scents were sucked aboard the rattling train; a sweetness of fragrance that left no doubt as to the lushness of the surroundings. As it zig-zagged rather indirectly up the mountain, the train made it slowly but surely up the igneous incline, click-clacking repetitively. To the outside observer, the train was dedicated to the tracks, destined to go wherever the line dictated. The higher they climbed, the signs of human habitation—and the fruit trees—thinned out, giving way to large, denser vegetation; the kind that thirsts for the higher rainfall found up in the cloud forests. On its journey, the train had few decisions to make; follow the tracks, and occasionally, just occasionally, decide left or right at a junction.
Pulling out from port, the young skipper eyed the horizon—heavy dark clouds weighed ominously over the ocean. The old salty sea dogs gathering around the dock had been whispering behind her back, mumbles about how she would be unable to handle the stress and strain of the incoming storm. She, however, trusted herself and her tīpuna—her ancestors—and her (and their) time upon the ocean from which the wisdom was hard-earned. As she deftly dodged the sandbar, she tacked south—this way she could skirt the storm; plus, she had heard from friends that the whales had begun their migration and she wished to bear witness to such a special cetacean tradition. Her choice turned out to be the right one—the storm continued east and made landfall; she had successfully dodged the worst of the winds; and her radio was abuzz with chatter from other skippers who had spotted the whales over the last couple of hours. For the boat, infinite decisions are made upon the sea—straight or tack; port or starboard, each with infinite degrees of directionality. Any harbour is open to be a safe haven.
The train and boat can act as analogies for the mind states of ‘thought’ and ‘awareness,’ respectively. A thought has no degrees of freedom—it is what it is until another thought arrives (or not); a train trundling along until a junction in the tracks. By contrast, awareness has uncountable degrees of freedom, a superposition of potentials afloat in deep; it is unencumbered by past or future, has no allegiance to perspective or preference. Everything is permissible.
Freedom is found in the infinite possibilities of the (metaphorical) boat, a course as-yet uncharted.
