the story pilgrim

sharing sacred stories on the pilgrimage through life

Musings

Life in Transit

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Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.

Søren Kierkegaard

Life never seems to stop. I know, I’m stating the obvious again.

There is always something waiting. Projects to finish, messages to answer, people asking for our time because they trust us to show up. We complain about being busy, yet if all of that disappeared tomorrow, I suspect many of us would feel a little lost. Perhaps it isn’t the busyness we object to. Perhaps it is how we carry it.

I’m writing this from a hotel room at Heathrow. My window overlooks the two runways, and since checking in, I haven’t gone more than a few minutes without watching another aircraft climb into the sky or descend back to earth. Thousands of people arriving, thousands leaving, families beginning holidays, others returning home. Business trips, funerals, weddings, first dates, last embraces, every aircraft carries a collection of stories that will never meet.

Heathrow does pause for a few hours each night because of the agreement on noise. Then, before most of us have finished our first cup of tea, it begins again. Seven days a week, every week of the year.

Watching it from afar, I found myself thinking about momentum.

Life has a habit of moving whether we are ready or not. We finish one chapter only to discover another one has quietly begun before we’ve even noticed the page turning. I find myself at one of those moments now. Not at the end of something, but standing in the doorway between what has been and what comes next.

I spend a great deal of time wondering what life feels like for other people. Not what they do for work or where they live, but how certainty feels to them. When they believe they are on the right path, does it arrive with confidence or quietly without announcement? And when that certainty disappears, do they carry the same mixture of disappointment and relief that I sometimes recognise in myself?

I’ve stopped looking for definite answers to those questions.

What matters more is noticing that the questions are there at all.

There are days when my mind races ahead of me, producing thoughts faster than I can make sense of them. Years ago, I would have fought them, convinced they needed solving. Now I am beginning to understand that not every thought deserves an answer; some simply deserve a little space.

There is something strangely comforting about allowing uncertainty to sit beside you without demanding that it leaves. I cultivate it through action and harvest it through calm.

Perhaps that is what I was really watching outside my hotel window. Not aeroplanes, not runways, not Heathrow.

Simply movement.

Life carrying on whether I understand it or not. And somehow, that feels enough.

The Captain and The Kia

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Champions keeping playing until they get it right.

Billie Jean King

A few years ago, if somebody had told me that one day I would be standing in a motorway service station discussing the finer points of a Kia Soul with a retired BOAC captain on his way to do a zipline with his grandson, I would probably have smiled politely and backed away slowly.

Yet there I was this past weekend, somewhere up north, plugged into a charging station, wondering why owning an electric car still feels faintly experimental once you leave civilisation behind.

Around town, it has been splendid, quiet, smooth, and economical. I charge it at home overnight and glide around Brighton feeling terribly futuristic. Long-distance driving, however, is another matter entirely. Britain’s charging infrastructure still seems to operate on the principle of “best of luck, everyone.”

I had stopped at a service station to charge the car, grab a coffee, and allow Todd the opportunity to inspect every blade of grass in the Midlands. When we returned, an elderly gentleman was standing at the front of the car staring at it with the concentration of a man trying to remember whether he had once driven one.

“Is this the Series 3?” he asked.

“I’m not entirely sure,” I replied. “I just drive it and hope for the best.”

He nodded immediately.

“Then it’s the Series 3.”

Within moments, we were deep into conversation about electric cars, mysterious dashboard symbols, and the peculiar reputation of the Kia Soul — a vehicle affectionately described by many as a shoebox on wheels. There is something deeply reassuring about two grown men bonding over mutual confusion with technology.

Eventually, he asked what I did for work.

“I’m cabin crew for British Airways.”

His face shifted slightly.

“I flew for BOAC,” he said. “Retired in 1989.”

And just like that, the conversation moved somewhere else entirely.

We spoke about flying, about passengers, about the rhythm of airports and time zones and the strange way aviation people always seem to recognise one another, even decades apart. He told me that after retirement, he joined the police force. Then I asked what had brought him onto the road that weekend.

He explained that he and his wife had shared the same birthday. May 23rd. She passed away last year.

There was a pause then, not awkward, just human.

He told me he had always wanted to do a zipline. She had never wanted to. So now, for the first time, he was travelling with his son and grandson to finally do one.

I remember feeling oddly moved by that. Not because it was dramatic, quite the opposite. It was small, understated, ordinary. The sort of conversation that disappears every day because somebody decides not to ask one extra question.

Before we left, I shook his hand and called him “Captain.” He smiled in a way that suggested he had not heard that word directed at him in quite some time.

Then we carried on with our separate journeys.

That brief encounter stayed with me for the rest of the drive north. It happened because of a car, or curiosity, or timing, or perhaps simply because two people were willing to remain open to interruption.

More and more, I think life speaks quietly, not through grand revelations or cinematic moments, but through these fleeting collisions with strangers who remind us that everybody is carrying a story, a grief, a hope, or a zipline they have not yet taken.

And perhaps that is what I really mean whenever I say:

keep listening.

Putting Fingers to Keyboard

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“I write to discover what I know”

Flannery O’Connor

I have never considered myself, aspired to be, or had the confidence to call myself a writer. Yet here I am, sitting at my laptop, putting fingers to keyboard — and it is fingers, no thumbs. Should I be using my thumbs? Why am I getting so distracted by this thought?

Six years ago, I set out to prove something to myself. I applied and was accepted to do a Masters. I have spoken about this before, but this was for me. I did not do well at school. From my mid-teens, I was told that there was no such thing as dyslexia and that I was just lazy and stupid, so I should just get on with it. And I believed it.

It took a while to come to the realisation that this was not true. I walked with someone recently, younger than me, who had gone through something similar, and they described it as bullying. I never saw it that way at the time, but I suppose that is exactly what it was. The Masters, at 50 years old, was going to be something that I did for myself. Up until then, I had seen education as a punishment, but I quickly learnt that it could be something entirely different, something encouraging, something that gave back. Out of it came the story pilgrim.

And here I am. Next month, I will be publishing my sixtieth newsletter. One a month. Five years. Five years of writing thoughts, events, and meaningful interactions that I felt I needed to pass on. That is a lot of words. They say that everyone has a book in them, and I suppose this is mine. Then there are the blogs — these blogs — and there is a lot of me in them. I do not know who is reading them. I do not know if anyone is reading them. But I enjoy the process, and the process helps me connect, to myself.

I talk a lot about walking in nature and how that helps me connect, both to it and to myself. Writing does something very similar. It allows those thoughts that sit in the background, the voice that runs constantly, to find a way out. They come through my fingers and appear there, in front of me, on the screen. In some way, by doing that, they become real. They become tangible. I can almost touch them, I can change them, I can read them back.

This week, I went for a walk with William Shakespeare. AI William Shakespeare. A lot of actors and creators are shying away from AI, some even running from it. I am trying to be a little more open-minded. The episode is far from perfect, but it has sparked some thoughtful conversations. I asked AI to write a sonnet for today, a sonnet about our conversation, and I have to admit, it is rather good. The final two lines stopped me:

“So listen to the silence when you can,
For that’s where nature speaks to every man.”

Isn’t that so true?

I am rambling, but I suppose what I am trying to say is this: if there is something in your life that unsettles you, something that brings in that sense of fear or uncertainty about what might happen, it might be worth giving it a go. You never really know where it might lead, and if it carries no real risk, if it is not going to do you any harm, then there is every chance that something good will come of it. I am more convinced of that now than I have ever been.

It has been a while

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“Pressure is a privilege.”

Billie Jean King

It has been a while since I put pen to paper and blogged. The pessimist inside of me tells me not to bother—no one reads these anyway, so what is the point? But the realist inside of me tells me to go ahead, as if anything, writing this is more for myself, a therapy more than anything else.

I find myself here in LA—well, Torrance, a sub-city within the second largest city in America. I was not expecting to come here; it just happened. Airport standby in my role as cabin crew, Friday morning, and within ten minutes of my shift starting, the phone rang, and preparations for the flight to LA began.

The flight here was packed, completely full, and it also had what we call a “positioning crew” onboard. These are crew members who are flying out to a destination as passengers but will be working a flight back. They were working on an Airbus A380 back, so that meant there were 22 of them, and it was a nightmare. They felt they could come and stand in the galley, open up workspace areas, and get things that they thought they were entitled to, when in reality they were only getting in the way of us, the operating crew, who were there to serve not only them but the actual fare-paying passengers. Too much information? Was I upset? A little. Did I get over it? Yes, I did.

Anyway, I went for a walk this morning. I was intending to walk down to the beach, but something told me not to, so I went for a meander around the local area instead. As I walked, several things came to mind. There are a lot of apartment blocks here, all named “The Mikado”, “San Bonito”, “Spencer Arms”, “Via de Amo”, and many more, and I started to think about America and how it came about—a mishmash of cultures, races, religions, people from all over the world who came to settle and live here. Of course, there are the indigenous people here as well, but what has that meant, what has that made America today?

It is a land full of conflict. Yes, some of it gets violent, but the majority of it is rooted in sport—professional, amateur, and college level. People find their tribe, their team, and then scream from the rooftops for victory. They become so passionate about success for these teams, these tribes that they follow, and it is a huge part of their culture, all stemming from the origins of bringing so many different people together.

I came across a “No Kings” protest demonstration outside the local city hall. Thousands of people had turned out to express their concerns about the land that they live in and how it is being governed. There were many different banners, most of them expressing how upset they are with the current administration and its leader, their President.

Now, I am not one for protesting; I would not normally arrange to be a part of something like this, but today something shifted within me. It was lovely to see people being able to get it out there, to express the concerns that they have, and in their minds, they are doing something about it. I stood there with a smile on my face as I watched their faces and their body language, as they were able to just let it out.

I walked away from the demonstration and immediately came to a small Japanese garden in the local cultural centre—beautiful, serene, a stark contrast to what was happening just a block away. I sat and watched the water cascade down the waterfall in the centre, and I thought about how the water was simply reacting to the environment that it found itself in. It was not resisting, it was not trying to be different, it was just going with the flow, but in doing so it was making a difference. Over time, that water will shape the rocks and the environment around it, it will give life to plants and animals that are able to take advantage of it, and it will make its mark, carving out its own design.

That struck me. We all can make a difference; sometimes it may not be seen, sometimes it may not be immediate, but the truth is, we can make a difference. Something has shifted, and I need to remember that, which is why I am writing this down now.

The Culture We’ve Created: Walking Backwards Through a World That Wants to Run

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“The trouble with the world is that the stupid are cocksure and the intelligent are full of doubt.”

Bertrand Russell

Lately, I’ve been walking a lot with Todd, our fox-like mystery of a rescue dog. We have a few regular routes near our house; footpaths, fields, bridleways, and most days we pick one and go. But this week, for no reason other than curiosity, I walked one of our usual paths in reverse.

It was oddly disorienting. Familiar things looked unfamiliar. Corners came too soon, or not soon enough. I knew the path, but I didn’t know it like this.

And it made me wonder: how often do we mistake routine for reality?

A Culture That Worships Momentum

In the Western world, we’re told that success looks like acceleration: move fast, build fast, reply fast, grow fast. Faster is better. Hustle is holy.

Even in the creative industries, perhaps especially in the creative industries, there’s this constant pressure to be seen, to be doing, to be producing. And when you’re not? You feel like you’ve fallen behind.

But what if forward isn’t the only direction? What if perspective is more valuable than momentum?

I’ve spent a lot of my life moving, countries, careers, projects, auditions, and it’s only now, walking slowly behind a Shiba Inu who barks at television screens, that I’m starting to question the rhythm of the world we’ve built.

Certainty Is Overrated

Bertrand Russell, with his usual sharp tongue, once said, “The trouble with the world is that the stupid are cocksure and the intelligent are full of doubt.” It rings true now more than ever.

Our current culture doesn’t have much time for doubt. It wants clarity. Strong opinions. Quick takes. Instant uploads. Everything curated and captioned before it’s even lived.

But doubt is honest. Hesitation is human. And as much as I hate to admit it, most of the meaningful things in my life, the best walks, the best conversations, even the best performances, came from not knowing.

From being lost.
From walking backwards.
From re-seeing something I thought I already knew.

The Illusion of Connection

We live in a world where it’s never been easier to “connect” and never harder to feel connected. We scroll past each other. We post rather than talk. We perform rather than reveal.

The danger in all this is that we start to believe the version of ourselves that gets the most engagement. And we forget the quieter version. The one who hesitates. Who doubts. Who changes their mind.

That version doesn’t play well on TikTok. But it might just be the one worth listening to.

What Todd’s Teaching Me

Todd doesn’t care about content. He cares about which stick tastes best and whether I’ve remembered to pack his favourite treat. He’s scared of sharp movements, unsure about new people, and suspicious of moving shadows.

He’s also teaching me to slow down. To notice. To watch my own reactions.

Some days I feel trapped by it all, by the not-knowing, the mess, the stalling of a career that I still deeply care about. Other days, I see it more clearly. This is just the view from the reverse angle.

And like that walk the other morning, it’s showing me something I couldn’t see when I was rushing through in the usual direction.

Final Thought

The culture we’ve created tells us to go faster. That visibility is success. That movement equals meaning.

But maybe it’s not about new paths. Maybe it’s about walking the same old ones, just in the opposite direction.

Slow down. Go backward. Get lost on purpose. Doubt with pride.

Todd and I will meet you there.

The Optimism I Give (and the Doubt I Keep)

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A birthday dispatch from someone who just turned 55 and isn’t quite sure how that happened.

“He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how.”

Friedrich Nietzsche

So here it is. Another birthday.

I’ve now reached the curious milestone of 55, and frankly, it’s come as a bit of a shock.

Some part of me is still waiting to feel like a proper grown-up. I remember when I used to think 55 was ancient. You’d have a caravan, knee problems, and opinions about curtain fabric. That version of 55 wasn’t wearing Converse or trying to start a podcast from a walk across Spain. And yet… here we are.

Even more surreal: I’ll be 60 in five years. Sixty. SIXTY. That number used to belong to grandparents and old-school policemen with moustaches and proper trousers. Now it belongs to me in five years.

So yes, I’m having the traditional birthday spiral: What have I done? What am I doing? How did I get here? And is it too late to sort it all out?

The External Cheerleader, The Internal Critic

I’ve always been excellent at pumping other people up. Genuinely, I’m Olympic-level when it comes to encouraging friends. You’ve got a plan? I’ll build you a logo, write your launch copy, and make you believe you were destined for greatness.

But for myself? That same energy vanishes. I become hyper-sceptical, suddenly obsessed with evidence and outcomes.

It’s maddening. Especially today. Birthdays pull focus like that.

You start to tally up what hasn’t stuck. All the things that nearly took off, the projects that flickered and faded, the doors that opened just enough to show you what was inside before slamming shut.

That’s the pattern I know too well. And the voice that narrates it? That voice is me. Calm, quiet, persistent. Telling me: “Don’t bother. You’ve done this before. Nothing sticks.”

But here’s the twist: I know that voice is lying. It’s fear dressed up as insight. And the only thing keeping it alive… is me.

The Nietzsche Problem

Nietzsche once wrote, “He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how.”

He wasn’t talking about midlife self-employment blues, or navigating YouTube algorithms, or trying to pitch a podcast about sacred storytelling to a world drunk on viral nonsense, but still. It lands.

The ‘why’ behind what I do: walking, writing, talking, connecting, that’s still real. Still intact. It just gets buried under all the perceived expectations.

The ones that say:

  • You should be further along by now.
  • You should have figured it out.
  • You should be more successful.

But who said that? Some ghost version of 55-year-old me I dreamt up when I was 28 and living off service station pasties? That guy had no idea what life would look like now.

The problem is never the mountain ahead. It’s always the pebble in your shoe. That small, persistent narrative that tells you not to bother — because you’ve already run out of time.

But if you’re still walking, you haven’t.

So What Now?

Maybe I stop trying to convince myself that optimism has to feel like certainty. Maybe it’s softer than that. Maybe it’s just willingness. A bit of breath in the lungs. Enough belief to get up and try again.

Not because this time will be different. But because this time is still worth doing.

And when I catch myself spiralling about age, and time, and that fact I’ll soon be closer to 60 than 50, I’ll remind myself: everything I’ve loved, built, and learned… I did after 30. Much of it after 40. So who says 55 is the epilogue?

Maybe it’s just Part Three.

So yes. I’m 55. I’m bewildered by that. But I’m here. Still walking. Still wondering.
Still trying to find a voice that’s kind enough to speak inward, not just outward.

If you’re doing the same, keep going. You’re not behind. You’re just between chapters.

Buen Camino,
Darren