I am very fond of the moon. Many situations cause me to think of the moon...it serves ably as symbol, metaphor, object, force. With regard to my "between stations" circumstance, I think of rockets and the fuel they require to lift them beyond Earth's gravitational pull and have a sense that it takes at least as much power to free us of old ways of being and doing. This seemingly long ante-chamber wait on fidget-producing chairs is the voyage away - we couldn't have slept through this part, could we? - and our own semi-willingness to return to the familiar, however inappropriate or destructive or simply over it may be, has moments when it seems preferable to having been launched toward...who knows what.
So I imagine the booster engines falling away, the final burst carrying us out beyond the reach of any hands that would pull us back - too late now - followed by the drift which trust alone tells us will place us into a wholly new orbit. Too bad no one asked - or mentioned - just how long the drift would last.