First is getting fired; then the divorce; then the new job.

Suddenly, I am no longer the guy who grabs the toasted bagel from his wife’s hands, drives to the suburban office park, works with people I like, then comes home to a family dinner (most nights; many nights; some nights).

Suddenly I am a commuter. From the new suburban apartment with the fold-out futon for the kids if they ever came to see me. From there to the parking lot, to the train, to the desk that holds a computer with numerical flashes needing constant tending, to the train, to the parking lot, and back again. And again, And again.

At first the train is soothing: new sounds, changing perspectives. And it’s punctual, an admirable trait: 6:37; 8:17. Until the incident.

And when close to a steaming lake surrounded by giant ferns, framed with silica terraces in white and blue and ochre, the same onrush of emotion held me breathless in gratitude.