The Holy Space of Public Transportation
Noticing our humanness in the most unlikely of places
I sat there in the coolness of the early November morning and turned my music on. A silent prayer space today did not happen in the early morning hours of getting ready, so I opted for the prayer of worship and communing with the Trinity where I was—on the metro headed into the heart of Washington, D.C. With soft music in my ears, I looked around and smiled.
Public transportation has always been one of my favorite spaces to be with God and others.
For me, there’s something about the rush of the Tube in London as a college student, the rhythmic words that were said when stepping onto the bus as a mom with three boys in Taiwan, the thrill of coming out of the subway station on a family vacation in Times Square, or the slow hum of everyone bouncing and swaying in other metro situations.
On public transportation we all wait collectively. We are in a space of liminal—not where we were, but not where we’re going. And we’re all there, together.
My husband and I sat recapping my day recently. I had the opportunity to be a part of a group of women in Washington, D.C. learning together and also using our voices to advocate for our immigrant and refugee friends on Capitol Hill. It was a thrilling couple of days! After the first day, I was sitting in our living space with my husband and recalled one of my favorite parts of the day.
“I was reminded today how much I love riding on public transportation,” I said with a pondering look in my eyes.
He looked at me a little confused, “Why do you say that?” He’s never been one that enjoyed commuting alongside others.
I sighed, “It’s like you get to see everyone in a very human form. They’re not performing at work, they’re not caretaking at home. They’re just there, as themselves, for a moment.”
What a gift it is to see others in our basic, human form. We are all different, yet so much the same.
The men in tailored blue suits that have pensive faces, I’m sure on their way to important meetings.
The hospital worker with a full backpack and a long shift ahead.
The teenagers with headphones on, phones out, and backpacks on.
The lady sitting and crocheting—using the middle space as her craft studio.
The young lady dancing to the rhythm of her music.
The ones dozing after a long night, or in anticipating of a long day ahead.
We are all one.
We are not so very different from each other.
There is a collective hum in our world where we are all in the middle, of what, is different for all. Where we come from each holds its own story—but here, in this time, are all the same.
We wait.
We hope.
We cry.
We long.
We tire.
We rest.
We bravely show up to what is, while holding what is not.
We are here, together, and not so different from each other.
What would it look like to start living in this way?
May we remember today that we are not as different from our neighbor as we might think.
May we hold hope today in the truth that we are never alone, even when being surrounded by others is isolating.
May we, today, look at ourselves and others with a little more compassion.
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Great perspective. I wish I lived in a place where that kind of public transit was an option.
I relate. There is something holy about just being present with each other as humans.