Magic

It just so happens that a night filled with rage due to trivial upset ends with jumping on a train where the doors suspiciously aren't closing. I finally gather through the collective whispering and questioning among the commuters that apparently there is an unconscious person on one of the trains and it’s necessary for us to now wait on the tracks at the station for god knows how long until the rider is able to receive medical attention. The loudspeakers turn on and a desperate call is heard amidst the static: “Any doctors or medical professionals on the train please proceed to the last car for medical assistance. I repeat. If there is a doctor on the train please proceed to the last car of the train for medical assistance.” A woman sitting next to me looks from right to left. “Which way is it to the end of the train?” she asks. By the time I have answered her and am wondering what kind of medical professional has to ask such a dumb question she’s dashed out the door and is running down the platform. And this is when the magic happens. Only in a place like New York would 10 licensed doctors be able to answer this call. In a city with so many different professions, races, classes, and boroughs, someone on the train is bound to be a doctor, a nurse, or a fireman. Within moments the man at the end of the train is taken care of, the crowd notified, and off we go.

And as I sit quietly in my double seat, inadvertently staring out the window and thinking about the rage that consumed me upon first entering the train, I wonder where it has gone. My mind and heart, which had shrunk to a tightly constricted “Eeee” has expanded and opened to the idea that life is much bigger than our petty problems. There’s always a larger picture. And though it is important to stay present in our current lives, the old adage is also very true, “don’t sweat the small stuff.”

And I think to myself this is what meditation is. It isn't sitting on a blanket in the Ganges with the sun strategically pointed at your shoulders and the world rotating in a perfect 360 degrees only for you. Though it may sometimes feel that way, meditation is something accessible and real. Meditation is something I could feel in the take out section of McDonald's, when I'm hung over and needing a greasy burger fix. Meditation is something I can feel in that tiny sparkle of a moment after listening to a friend tell a silly joke. Meditation is taking a moment-that suspended pause filled with the time we are granting to ourselves.

Meditation is...reflecting on the magic.

The Glow

Because the majority of a train ride is comprised of solitary individuals riding in complete disconnection with the tiny invisible barriers they have established between themselves and the next person, little communication occurs. It's as if at the exact moment these individuals board the subway their personality vanishes and they turn into a train riding stooge. Perhaps this occurrence is part of a New Yorker's survival method to preserve as much energy as possible for their often chaotic lifestyle, or perhaps it is simply a result of the basic primal fear that arises when one is shoved into an enclosed space filled with complete strangers. Either way if, on the rare occasion, one observes or shows signs of humanity during a train ride, its nuances, no matter how subtle, have the tendency to explode into moments of passion. I had to explain this fact to my current boyfriend who was upset that my last post involved falling in love with a stranger on the subway. I had to explain to him that in actuality I did not fall head over heels for the boy sporting similar headphones as me on the train, I simply found myself dreaming of a fantasy relationship in rebellion of the stooge-like hypnosis the MTA was overpowering me with. Better to date a woman who's alive and subconsciously promiscuous than a zombie-turned commuter, right?

Well, here we are. A spark has been flared on the train and this time I am merely an observer. I watch as the two people talk and laugh, she brushing her hair behind an ear and he leaning a little closer to hear. The two individuals look almost bathed in light, beaming like a light bulb has been turned on inside of them. They are bursting at the seams with a combination of like, lust, fun, and excitement because they have suddenly struck a chord during their conversation and flirtatious exchange that creates a delicious harmony. As we near towards the next station one of the individuals has to leave. Their goodbye commences without sadness, the excitement and brush with chemistry building to a level that as one swings through the sliding doors and onto the platform and the other remains seated on the train, you can feel their combined energy radiating throughout the whole car. This energy created by the two individuals can be described in only one way. As a...glow. A delicious glow. We zombies feed off of this glow and hope that it provides enough nourishment to carry us through to our next stop. Because not all of us are or want to be stooges. But sometimes to live vicariously is the closest we can get to living in the New York moment.

Dumb Love

I fell in love on the train today.

It happened like this:

I recently started wearing headphones to accompany me on my commute. And by recently I mean once, when I remembered that it was a great idea to think ahead and grab the device that would allow me to do this. Because you see I am one of the last 5 people in America that has not yet purchased that wonderful, convenient music player called the ipod. Yes, ladies and gentleman, I still have one of those circular players fondly referred to as a "discman," a title which implies a little man has decided how great it would be to enrich his owner's commute by playing music into their ears. The little man, however, isn't technologically advanced enough to put his talent into a small enough package. And the package requires a few more items to operate. Batteries, which seem to leak power as easily as an airmattress supporting a 300 pound whale, and compact discs. Which aren't so compact when you begin carrying them from place to place. Needless to say, remembering to bring my ancient discman along with me for the morning ride was not always an easy or conducive task.

Regardless, here I was with my discman wonderfully secreted away in my satchel so that only the headphones peaked out. I jumped onto the subway train immersed in the music of Bob Dylan, whom I recently had become infatuated with. And by recently this time I actually do mean recently. I had begun to play a cover of his "Don't Think Twice It's Allright," on the ukulele and within the span of the last three days had listened to the 3 disc set I owned of his music repeatedly until the two AA batteries had drained out of my little man. In all fairness I suppose by repeatedly I mean twice, since a 300 pound whale does press into vinyl very abruptly.

But here I was, jumping onto the subway immersed in the bittersweet, scratchy tunes of Dylan when immediately I caught the eyes of a gentleman at the other end of the train. White cords peaked out under his oversized hat and wound their way into his pocket. He was listening to music too! In the second that followed I wasn't sure if our eyes had actually met or something more subtle had occurred. In fact, he had been glancing in my direction and the idea of his interest fueled my interest and suddenly an entire love affair had built itself up in one glance. Rich chemistry flowed from one end of the train to the other as an entire world developed between our music inspired hearts. Clearly, the rest of the members on the train could feel this bond that we both shared. But as we rode on in suspended passion, the other train members began to disappear from my mind and my vision. It was as if music man and I were the only two people on the train. Out of the corner of my eye, since I felt so close to him it wasn't necessary to look directly at him, I saw my gentleman stand up and begin to walk towards me. For one glorious moment he looked at me again and then after the Bing! sounded of opening doors, stepped off the train. The doors shut and the train once again chugged forward, moving closer towards my destination. In that moment, as we moved forward in opposite directions, our unspoken marriage had ended in divorce. A clean, mutual break that fortunately did not come laden with dirty battles over custody or the stealing of each other's belongings. My lover had chosen the 34th Street stop. And I, on the other hand was enroute to Brooklyn.

But you know what they say. "If someone you love hurts you cry a river, build a bridge, and get over it." Never be sad for what is over, just be glad that it was once yours. I didn't build a bridge that night. But I did cross over one in order to get to Brooklyn. And as I looked out over the water I fell in love. With the reflection, the lights of the city, and the rust on the bridge's support beams. A love affair had begun. I was beginning to think the city and I were the only ones on the train...

Good morning

It happens all the time. That New York morning where you rush, rush, rush to get out the door, grab an extra scarf because the temperature has plummeted an unexpected 10 degrees, speed through the meandering crowd, accidentally knock over an overripened plum from the fruit and vegetable stand, pick it up, smile at the vendor, and speed walk just fast enough that you could be running but you're not, because you're trying to look casual. After your heart beat quickens and your breath becomes a tad bit shallow, taking on the particular rhythm you had developed when jogging was a part of daily activity, you finally reach the platform.

And here you must wait.

For the train.

To come.

When will it come? How long will it take? Will it be the right train? Is there construction happening? If so will you find out about it in time to call into work and let them know before your phone looses service?

All of these thoughts start racing through your head until you start to break a subtle sweat and you're coaxing yourself to just breathe and not give a damn about a thing you don't have control over. Because you do have control over your own breath and how you feel about the situation. Who cares about the MTA. It is the one variable that unites New Yorkers. The variable that may always be a variable, but invariably will fuck with your schedule at some point during your commutes.

And at the last possible minute when you think you can no longer take it and the trains have all disappeared from the earth in one grand spontaneous combustion you hear a chug, a squeal, and a grinding. Two headlights pave their way through the Fall air.

The train has arrived. It is your train. And it's time to jump on.

Another charade of casual occurs as those on the platform line up, pretending they can take their time boarding the train, but at the same time terrified that if they dawdle the train will hurry past and they won't get a seat.

With a loud bing the train's doors slide open. A changing of the guard occurs as those who were inside march outwards and those hovering on the platform swing inside hastily, yet cool.

You've made it.

You're on the train.

Now the fun can begin.