Abdinz

Some mornings, when my alarm goes off at 8:30 AM, I lie there for a moment in the room, listening to the rain tap against the window. My body remembers yesterday’s shift – the miles walked between towering shelves, the weight of boxes lifted and stacked, the constant hum of forklifts and conveyor belts. There’s an ache in my shoulders, a stiffness in my knees. And yet, I smile. Because this is the life I’ve come to love – one of movement, of purpose.

The Dance of the Warehouse

Our distribution center is a city within a city. A labyrinth of pallets and shipping containers, a symphony of beeping machines and shouted directions. I’ve learned to navigate it like a second home. Some days, I’m on foot, weaving through narrow aisles, my hands calloused from cardboard and plastic wrap. Other days, I’m in the cab of a forklift, maneuvering with precision, stacking goods that will end up in stores across the country. It’s repetitive, yes. But there’s a rhythm to it, a kind of meditation in motion.

What makes it worthwhile are the people. We come from different worlds – some grew up here, others crossed oceans to be here. We speak different languages, carry different stories. But in the break room, over steaming cups of tea and Tupperware containers of homemade curries, stews, and dumplings, we find common ground. There’s a kind of magic in sharing food with someone whose childhood was shaped by flavors you’ve never tasted before.

Our supervisors don’t just bark orders – they lead. They notice when someone’s struggling and step in. They remember birthdays. They push us to be better. In a place where exhaustion could easily breed resentment, I’ve found something unexpected: camaraderie.

The Need for Stillness

By Friday, my body is a live wire of tension. My mind, though, is the real casualty – jumping from task to task even when the workday is done. That’s why I flee to the water.

My camper van is a work in progress – the bed is a fold-out, the “kitchen” is a camping stove on a plank of wood, and the walls are still bare insulation in places. But it’s mine. And when I park it beside Lake Rotoroa or drive out to Raglan’s black sand beaches, none of its imperfections matter.

I walk. Slowly. Deliberately. Letting my feet sink into mud or sand or grass, letting my lungs fill with air that doesn’t smell like diesel or plastic. Sometimes I sit on the tailgate with a book, but more often, I just listen. The wind in the trees, the lap of waves, the distant cry of birds – these are the sounds that untangle the knots in my mind.

Between Two Worlds

There’s a balance here, though I didn’t see it at first. The warehouse is all urgency – clocks ticking, deadlines looming, the relentless forward march of productivity. But nature operates on a different scale. The lake doesn’t care if I’m late. The trees don’t rush their growth.

I need both. The warehouse keeps me sharp, keeps me connected to something bigger than myself. The quiet moments by the water remind me that I’m more than just a body pushing pallets – I’m a person who needs stillness to stay whole.

Maybe that’s the lesson I’ve been learning all along: that a good life isn’t about choosing between hard work and peace, but about finding a way to hold both.

So when the alarm goes off on Monday, I’ll groan, stretch out the stiffness, and go back to the rhythm of the warehouse. And when the weekend comes, I’ll point my rickety van toward the horizon, chasing silence.

Both are home.