Polly Gillespie’s Zen Moments: Finding Peace on Public Transport
Polly Gillespie’s Zen Moments: Finding Peace on Public Transport
There are moments when taking public transport can be a meditative experience. Then there are times when it tests your endurance, character, and restraint. I’ve discovered a new kind of zen in not having to find a parking spot in the city, where securing a space can be as challenging as catching the Snitch in a game of Quidditch.
The Quidditch Conundrum
As a sports enthusiast, I must admit that J.K. Rowling’s Quidditch never quite suspended my disbelief. Surely, she can’t be a true sports fan. No game can be won by catching one golden ball, rendering all previous points irrelevant. That’s not how sports work. This thought bothered me greatly while reading the books to my kids, and it still makes my eye twitch.
The Parking Predicament
Parking in the city is utterly ridiculous. Nearly every spot is private or occupied by the dreaded army of road cones. The orange cone manufacturers must be billionaires by now. I wish I had invented the orange cone—not glamorous, but the wealth! As the cones take over the world, many of us have turned to the bus or train.
Eat, Pray, Love on the Bus
Some nights, the bus ride is beautiful. I have Eat, Pray, Love-type spiritual awakenings, minus the eat. You can’t eat on the bus unless you surreptitiously nibble on a Mrs. Higgins cookie tucked in your purse. On some nights, I find a sense of warm comfort knowing that someone else—the bus driver—is in charge of my final destiny.
Other days, like today, locked in the window seat next to a man who wanted to know if I knew every single radio and TV personality from the past 30 years, I found no zen, no peace, and no cookie.
A Conversation on the Bus
The conversation went something like this:
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“Hey Pauline! How’s the radio?”
“Oh good, thanks. I’m starting something new soon.”
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“How’s Grant? Sleeping in today?”
“Remarried.”
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“How about Hilary Barry?”
“Oh, I don’t know Hilary.”
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“You should be on The Breeze.”
“Oh no, I don’t think so. A bit conservative for me.”
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“Jason Gunn? Jeremy Wells? Phil O’Brien? Toni Street? What about John Campbell?”
“Yes, John Campbell is a lovely man.”
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“Nick Tansley? Peter Williams? John Macbeth?”
“Very nice men—all of them.”
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“You on More FM, eh?”
“No, not anymore.”
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“What time do you have to get up for that, eh?”
“4am.”
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“So you’re on holiday?”
“Yes.” (Much easier, I decide)
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“Trev James? Keith Quinn? Grant Walker? Samantha Fox?”
(I believe he means Samantha Hayes. I smile but don’t correct him.)
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“Robert Rakete? The Edge?”
“Yes, Dom Harvey is a friend.”
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“I don’t know him,” he says.
“He’s very good,” I reply.
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“Kim Hill? Simon Barnett?”
I know he’s nearing his stop because he has to catch another bus to see his nephew who’s had a stroke. I’m desperate to stop the radio quizzing.
“Oh no, your nephew has had a stroke? How old is he?”
“85.” I figure he may mean uncle.
Reflections on the Bus
A few months ago, I would have found this all unbearable, but with my mother’s accelerated dementia, I am patient. I behave well. I answer the questions where I can, even if not truthfully.
Sometimes the bus can be a haven for quiet reflection, knowing there is no parking or road rage involved. Sometimes it challenges me to be a better person, more aware of the cruel ravages of time.
I’ve somehow never met Hilary Barry, but I believe she is really lovely. I’ve never heard a bad word. I somehow doubt she catches buses though.
Eat, pray, love, and breathe, Polly. Just breathe.
For more insights on finding peace in unexpected places, you can visit Mindful, a reputable source for mindfulness and well-being.
