Grace on the Bus

If you don’t know the kind of person I am and I don’t know the kind of person you are, a pattern that others made may prevail in the world and following the wrong god home, we may miss our star. --William Stafford

Do we really know the people around us? Do we even know ourselves for that matter? This week I returned to riding the bus amidst the previous week’s headlines of increased assaults and overcrowding.

It was one of those Seattle mornings where it’s hard to tell if the sky is going to break wide open into sunshine or burst into a deluge of rain. What would the day look like? After a bit of seat shifting between bus stops a middle-aged man landed in the seat next to me. He said, “good morning” which is something different in itself. Most riders just plug into their media (headphones, newspapers, books) and pretend the person next to them doesn’t exist. Soon we were sharing a bit of conversation as he relayed pieces of local good news—a lost runner had been found, baby falcons had hatched. Hmmm. I thought, this doesn’t feel like the bus described in last week’s paper.

The bus felt even lighter on the afternoon ride home even though it was five o’clock traffic and the coach was really crowded. The bus driver was amazing. The word ‘grace’ comes to mind. He let people exit from the back door rather than push through to the front. I witnessed riders offer seats to mothers and children. I saw strangers engage in light-hearted conversation. I saw a woman exit through the back door and deliberately walk around to the front and pay her fare (others had not done this) and then I watched that pattern repeated over and over with no real expectation from the driver.

The bus driver was our guardian for that short period of time and he did an amazing job. He was a keeper of peace, not with enforcement of rules but with kindness and a lightness in the air. Grace. He could have insisted everyone push through the crowd. Instead, he opened another door.

Through what door will I enter the world today? In what small ways might I hope to alleviate someone else’s burden—possibly their need to push and shove to be seen or heard? How will I see goodness and seek to know the person who stands before me or sits beside me? How will I follow my own star and not the headlines of another? How will you?

Bus Headlines

“Reports of trouble on buses rise”
“Rider-on-rider “assaults” up 30% in a Year”
“Stats define incidents broadly, but rudeness noted”

These were the headlines of The Seattle Times Local News section on Saturday. Having missed my weekly bus rides for about a month now, I was naturally drawn to this piece. Ironically, the continuation page of the article landed right next to the “Faith and Values” section of the paper. Hmmm. Coincidence?

I began to ponder these topics together. What if we responded to rudeness with kindness? What if we reported stories of good deeds rather than angry words? What if we wondered what might be happening personally to people rather than blaming the metro system? What if we offered each other a cup of kindness rather than a shove and push? If we offered our seat rather than turned away in indifference? If we looked with compassion rather than judgment?

What if we did something different? Paid our love forward? “Unplugged” our i-pods and cell phones? Considered people rather than systems? What if we stayed in our seat and let the sleeping man rest? If we offered comfort rather than contempt?

Do you think we could change the headlines?

“Compassion can never coexist with judgment because judgment creates the distance, the distinction, which prevents us from really being with the other.”
--Henri Nouwen

Common Cup

Although I have not been on the bus for a few days, the riders have continued to stay with me. A friend of mine e-mailed and said, “Based on the people you meet, have you considered taking another route?” I think his words were tongue in cheek, however, my immediate response was, “No way! These are my people.”

I find poetry much like the lingering images of my bus rides. I don’t necessarily understand what is being communicated, but the words and thoughts stay with me throughout my thoughts and dreams.

Two writings have been mingling in my mind for the last day or so that I would like to share here. The first are words from Sunrise Sister in response to “Chinese on the Bus.” The next is a poem from Elizabeth Barrett Brownings’, Sonnets from the Portuguese.

“The Chinese man - so willing to really, or even kiddingly, offer you a drink from a "common cup" - I, too, reach for the spiritual presence of God in each meeting. Are we more likely to share the "common cup" with a stranger than a person we "think" we know? Does the other person drink often from a "common cup" - making him eager to share the experience of communion with others?” – Sunrise Sister

“The face of all the world is changed, I think,
Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul
Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole
Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink
Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink,
Was caught up into love, and taught the whole
Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole
God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink,
And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear.
The names of country, heaven, are changed away
For where thou art or shalt be, there or here;
And this…this lute and song…loved yesterday,
(The singing angels know) are only dear
Because they name moves right in what they say.”

--Elizabeth Barrett Browning

From what cup shall I choose to drink today? How about you?

Bandito on the Bus

Riding the bus exhibits an infinite clash of cultures and gives the imagination an opportunity to run wild. On this ride I was seated near the back of the bus just behind the rear door. It was slightly later than the normal rush hour ride. At one of the first stops, three young women (teenagers, no doubt) boarded and were all giggles and conversation. They reminded me so much of my daughter and her friends except that their heads were wrapped in colorful scarves, they glittered with lots of silver dangling jewelry and rapidly spoke in a foreign language. I wondered about their nationality and smiled to consider that teenage girls are teenage girls regardless of their birthplace.

Soon, they exited the spot where they had blocked my view of a man I have fondly dubbed the “bandito.” He was straight out of a spaghetti western with his swarthy good looks and clothes of black. Instead of cowboy boots, he wore heavy black shoes that were firmly placed across the empty seat beside him. The seat faced the back door of the bus and put him at a great vantage point for me to observe.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about his behavior until the bus started to fill and he nonchalantly, yet quite defiantly, kept his leg across the seat. Dressed in black jeans and a black coat with a grey hoodie underneath, he sat and cleaned his teeth with the corner of a matchbook. He did not look up and no one seemed to even consider asking him to move his foot. There were no available seats and soon two young men stood in the stairwell by the door. One had a military haircut and a canvas computer bag slung across his body. The other had longish hair and wore the typical accessory of many riders—headphones—on his ears. Both looked like they were heading to work downtown. The bandito lazily pulled tobacco out of his pocket and rolled his own cigarette as others stood around him. He mumbled to himself that the bus driver had called a stop the Garfield Bridge rather than the Garfield “Street” Bridge and it really seemed to annoy him. He appeared very attuned to what was going on around him while at the same time being totally in his own world.

Finally another man came back toward the empty seat. He also had weather worn skin and wore long dreadlocks covered with a navy bandanna. His hands and fingers were covered with tattoos and it was hard to say whether he was going to work or possibly to one of the homeless missions downtown. Interestingly enough, the bandito looked up, nodded toward the empty seat and removed his foot so this man could sit down. They shared a few words (again something about the bus driver’s inability to name stops correctly) and then the dreadlock man exited at which point Bandito firmly planted his foot back across the seat.

It was such a curious interaction to observe. Shortly after his seat partner left, Bandito glanced around (I obviously was not in his direct line of vision) and pulled a very tall can of cheap beer from his pocket, popped the top and began to take covert sips between stops. I found myself wondering who he was, why he would choose to let one person sit by him and not others. Was he really defiant, oblivious or possibly just uncomfortable? I considered whether prejudice might play a role and finally I mused about what would lead him to sneak drinks of beer on a bus at 9:30 in the morning. Who was this mystery man? Was he as surly and self-confident as he appeared? Or was he just one more lonely person trying his best to make it through the day?

Today I will close with this lovely prayer from Christine that speaks well to my bus riding experiences.

"Pray for Peace"

"Then pray to the bus driver who takes you to work.
On the bus, pray for everyone riding that bus,
for everyone riding buses all over the world.
Drop some silver and pray." -- Ellen Bass

Chinese on the Bus

He studied Chinese. I studied the faces around me. I love the bus. It is delightful and scary all at the same time. So much humanity contained in a narrow transporter of people. Where are they going? What do they do? How do they dream?

The other day a young man sat down next to me. He was nice looking in an offbeat sort of way. Like most riders, he didn’t make eye contact and tried to honor the space between us. A tantalizing aroma wafted my direction and I was temporarily overcome by the smell of his fresh latte and heard myself saying, “Wow, your coffee smells really good.” He smiled and pointed toward the stand by the roadside, mentioned they were pretty quick and that we had a red light. Just then the bus started to move. “Not quite quick enough,” I replied. And then he made a very tender gesture that took me by surprise. “Want a sip?” he asked. I chuckled and politely declined, moved by his offer nonetheless. He may have just been teasing, but I had the distinct feeling he would have honored his word had I responded “yes” to his offer.

We rode along and I noticed he had some handwritten vocabulary cards he was flipping through in a study-like fashion. “What language?” I inquired. “Chinese,” he responded. “Going on a trip?” “Nope. Just a hobby.” Our conversation continued for a few more moments. It was brief, but definitely brightened my day.

I always wonder about the people on the bus. They seem so solitary—plugged into their i-pods and hiding behind books, newspapers and blank expressions.

A woman sat across from me on the ride home. She was self-contained and quiet like the rest of the riders, but at one point in the trip someone got on the bus and caught her attention. She must have been fond of the person because her face lit up and transformed into a beautiful smile. It was like magic.

We desire community. Communion means ‘union with.’ Maybe that’s why people ride the bus and don’t even realize it. Maybe it’s not economic or ecological, but rather it is communal. Okay, maybe that’s a stretch to consider, but it’s definitely a world in which I’d like to believe. A place where smiles light up faces and strangers offer to share their coffee. Hmmm. I think I’ll keep riding for now. After all, it’s good for my wallet, the earth benefits in a small way and my soul gets surprised in unimaginable ways. Who knows… maybe I’ll even learn a word or two of Chinese next time?

photo by bill hughlett