As most of my family has heard, 9 people were killed in a Metro crash on Tuesday. This has led to slower trains, longer-waiting times and most obnoxiously, crazy-crowded cars. I’ve heard stories of 45 minutes waiting to get onto a train, when every train that passes is packed full. Maybe it’s my San Francisco training, but I have made my first train every time except tonight, when I wasn’t in a hurry and let other people get on the first two trains.
I’ve never been claustrophobic, but descending down a huge concrete tunnel every morning makes me take a deep breath to calm my nerves. Now, packed in quarters which most sardines would balk at, I’ve been practicing my meditation skills. When I start to feel squished and hot, and can’t see farther than the blond perm in my face, I close my eyes and think of mountains. Not the little mountains, the tiny, soft Alleghenies; I think of the Sierras. Gloriously tall, deadly, ice-cold snow and searingly hot high deserts. I think of the feel of the high wind on a ridge-line, or the low, stony stream in late August. I breath deeply and slowly, smelling the far away pines and wild-flowers.
I open my eyes and I am still surrounded by panting, sweaty people. But inside, I am in the mountains; I smile at the women across the way.
I figure it’s good karma.
“Silence is more eloquent than words.”–Thomas Carlyle