Okay, I know I'm going to sound a bit strange now, but one of the things I miss most about working (outside the home, that is) is riding public transportation. No, I don't miss the constant stale and body-odorous smell of the red line in the winter or the traces of spilled or neglected food or drink left behind in the seat crevices; what I miss is the interaction, however brief, of my being in contact with other beings in small and [hopefully] speedy containers. Most of the time we are all involved in our own insular worlds, with our smart phones, headphones, perhaps even a novel or two, but the understood trust and camaraderie, even if forced, is inherent in the air around us. Jason Kottke recently posted a fantastic photograph taken by Stanley Kubrick in the the 1940s of a subway rider when he was working as a photographer for Look magazine. The Museum of the City of New York has a collection of hundreds of his photos taken on the New York City subway during this period. You can check out some of the photos here. It is interesting note that some things are still quite the same amongst subway riders from city to city, from time to time.
These days, relying on my well-driven minivan (yes, I did become one of those moms), I cart my kids to preschool and activities and drive myself to the gym and grocery. You see, Chicago is one of those big cities that has a relatively good public transportation system but still has a remarkable number of drivers, unlike New York. Part of that is that we actually have places to park those cars for the most part, unlike that other large city on an eastern coast. We may not be quite as car-reliant as LA, but we're probably close. Most families I know in the city have one or two cars, although those working in the city almost always take public transportation to work. Several mornings, I get texts or emails from Nalin on his way to work. He's been browsing his phone or iPad on his commute down and sends me some invaluable story or tweet to get my day started. I envy this time to melt into oneself. I read many novels and magazine articles just in the time I was on the bus or subway after Ettu was born. I was still working, and this travel was the only time I found I could really have all to myself (well, in proximity to 50 others, that is).
So perhaps this post is ill-named. After all, it doesn't seem that we share much with anyone we ride with on these trips of necessity — with the exception of the brief bodily brushes and occasional head nods. But perhaps communion doesn't necessarily have to involve true intimacy with those around us. The greater power is in knowing that we are part of a larger fabric, and this precious time we have to ourselves with the present awareness of a bigger and, yes, sometimes stranger world is what gives us our humanity. And that's a communion I can really dig.
These days, relying on my well-driven minivan (yes, I did become one of those moms), I cart my kids to preschool and activities and drive myself to the gym and grocery. You see, Chicago is one of those big cities that has a relatively good public transportation system but still has a remarkable number of drivers, unlike New York. Part of that is that we actually have places to park those cars for the most part, unlike that other large city on an eastern coast. We may not be quite as car-reliant as LA, but we're probably close. Most families I know in the city have one or two cars, although those working in the city almost always take public transportation to work. Several mornings, I get texts or emails from Nalin on his way to work. He's been browsing his phone or iPad on his commute down and sends me some invaluable story or tweet to get my day started. I envy this time to melt into oneself. I read many novels and magazine articles just in the time I was on the bus or subway after Ettu was born. I was still working, and this travel was the only time I found I could really have all to myself (well, in proximity to 50 others, that is).
So perhaps this post is ill-named. After all, it doesn't seem that we share much with anyone we ride with on these trips of necessity — with the exception of the brief bodily brushes and occasional head nods. But perhaps communion doesn't necessarily have to involve true intimacy with those around us. The greater power is in knowing that we are part of a larger fabric, and this precious time we have to ourselves with the present awareness of a bigger and, yes, sometimes stranger world is what gives us our humanity. And that's a communion I can really dig.