Pilgrimage Chronicles
Letter II
Dear friend
I am writing you from Luton, my last stop inland before I cross the British channel. I daresay this island keeps hardly any recognisable feature since you last roamed it. However, beneath the surface, below the layers of cement, sewage pipes and all those contraptions that humans today call “infrastructures”, a beautiful hum from underground is still perceptible, especially during the early hours of dawn. As I listen to it, I am able to pick out echoes of the ancient, soft, maiden-like freshness, that was the hallmark of this land.
Yes, I still remember it. In fact, as I grow older, that fog of forgetfulness that is part of being on Earth, has become thinner, that is, I remember more and more. Such recall often comes with a sense of loss and it can easily lead to nostalgia, a sentiment I resist, for in the yearning for what was, I loose capacity to metabolise what is and make space for what could yet become.
Luton, a case in point. It is startling what human history has made of it, so intensely different from what it used to be. I’d rather avoid describing its present condition to you because I would need to use ideas that only reiterate and reinforce further its current state. Suffice to say that it is not easy to hold the discrepancy between past and present.
But perhaps there are other, unpredictable ways of remembering, and that possibility surfaced for me this morning. I have walked to a big supermarket and shared temporarily the routine of its morning users. Supermarkets are enclosed spaces full of items such as food and other things that are part of daily life. All of these are wrapped in packages that barely relate to what is inside. The packages themselves capture one’s attention in ways that feel intensely loud and dry. And friend, there are thousands and thousands of them, stacked in long rows. One learns to locate what one needs by finding the right row among many, a veritable labyrinth of boxes upon boxes.
The whole area is lit by glaring electric lights, leaving no place for shade or rest. Hidden loudspeakers emit tunes, one after the other. These tunes were created elsewhere and were obviously not meant to be played here.
Overall it is like the space of a spell, but one that feels strangely detached from its victims, even indifferent to their presence.
As you might imagine, a good measure of focus and stamina is essential to enter and leave these places unscathed.
Once one gathers what one needs, one aims for the exit straight-away. There are a few passageways for that purpose where people wait in line. At the end of the line an individual officiates a transaction. They are known as cashiers. Their work is to go through every package everyone carries and charge them. Only then we are able to leave.
It is possible to choose which corridors or lines to exit. Typically, people choose the fastest moving line, so they can leave as soon as possible. My choice however, comes from tuning into these individuals that work as cashiers.
Today there were only two. One in particular felt more troubled so I chose to be in his queue. As I shuffled slowly in the row of people, I observed him.
He was very large. His swollen hands worked through each package, handling it in such a way as to allow a machine to register its cost. He did this with remarkable speed. Packages, large and small, rolled in his hand one after the other.
His eyes didn’t even look at the items and instead gazed absentmindedly into the distance.
I held him in my awareness, as I would one of us.
When my time arrived and I stood in front of him, he greeted me and said: “I haven’t seen you for quite a while”.
I paused, acknowledging this unexpected expression of remembrance.
He added: “what have you been up to?”
“Oh, I have been through quite a few adventures, you know, while on pilgrimage” - I replied.
“that’s interesting” - he said.
His attention then recoiled back, into his inner sanctuary, far away from the reality of his supermarket life. Like a body sinking from the surface of the waters, downward, passively.
My eyes picked up the employee pin on his shirt. I called him back.
“What about you, Richard?”
Pause.
“Alright” - he said.
The registering had been done. It was time to take my leave.
“Take care of yourself” - I said, in full presence.
He replied something conventional, polite and effectively detached, knowing he would stay and I would go.
*
Dear friend, I look forward to our reunion. Such a prospect is of great comfort to me even as I know I still have a few trails to tread and a few links to repair on this Earth.
Your friend,
Rūna
Luton, October 2025