Gluts, Subway Trains, and Eight Minutes of Life

I feel it, long before I see it.  Suddenly, out of the dark hole, it arrives.  Like a silver bullet being shot out of a gun, it hurls itself forward toward the loading platform.  

I glance at my phone, 11:30 pm. We are part of a larger crowd, standing along the edge of the loading platform. As the subway screeches to a halt, the train opens it's sliding doors.  Glancing at the human sardine can in front of me and then at my friend, she gives me a reassuring smile, grabs my arm, and we are moving toward the door.  With only seconds left, she slides in under several taller people, attempting to pull me with her.  The only problem is that I am MUCH taller and bigger than she is.  My foot barely makes it over the threshold and a tall, strong gentleman reaches out, places his hand on my lower back, and pulls me forward into the contorted mangle of bodies.  I reach up for a hand grip, and realize there is a smallish lady with her face directly in my armpit, oh yikes! (I can only imagine what she must be thinking.)  Not wanting to stand out as a "visitor", I decide not to make eye-contact.  My unreasonable mind decides to have fun with this. Suddenly, thoughts of "the train crashing and the aid workers finding an odd assortment of body parts in places that they shouldn't be" are swirling and attempting to hijack the hilarity of this situation.  

Seconds tick by and the doors start to slide shut but bounce back open.  My body is touching so many others, I am working hard to remain calm. Obviously, people around here don't seem to have a problem with this.  Maybe it is just my "West Coastness" and my desire to keep a personal bubble around me.  Anyway, I just keep telling myself that this will just be for eight minutes as we go under the Hudson River.   I can do anything for eight minutes.  

Suddenly, the gentleman who just pulled me in by my back, simultaneously gives me a sympathetic glance, whispers "Sorry, lady" and scoops my bum up and into the car.  Yes, you guessed it, the door couldn't close because my bottom was in the way.  Realizing this is an awkward situation for both of us, I attempt to stand still and think of other things.  BUT....I can't, this is just too hilarious and I fear it is about to get even funnier.  This stranger now has his hand on my bum and won't be moving it for the next eight minutes because he can't!  It is stuck between the pressure of my well developed gluts and the steel door.  Truly, it is like a can of sardines, with five too many crammed in.   To top it off, there is a deafening silence in the train car and all I can think of is, "The pizza I ate after the poetry slam, really isn't sitting well in my tummy.  I hope the rumblings don't decide to exit before the eight minute ride to Hoboken is over." 

The train finally pulls into the station and the doors open.  We have arrived and I am beyond grateful.  

Taking care to keep my joy contained and my eyes diverted, I exit with the masses up the steep stairs to freedom.  Suddenly I am stifling the giggles.  I can't even tell my sweet friend what has taken place because I am undone with laughter.  

It is 12:10 am.  Strolling through the dark streets of Hoboken, we chat about the evenings events; poetry and short story readings; deliciousful tapas with Adrian Pasdar and the two others; the "Snakeman";  and the fact that I am so "West Coast".  It has been an amazing day.   

Arriving back at her 500 square foot residence, we quickly dress for bed and turn the lights off.  I lay here pondering the gift of this day.  My heart is full;  my mind is entertained;  my body is exhausted; and I am grateful that the air-biscuit did not escape on the train.  Joy and contentment for the gift of this day flood my heart and I smile as I drift off to sleep.  Maybe this is what all days are intended to be like?

I never knew that eight minutes of life could be so full of wild experiences; random thoughts, and such a vast variety of feelings.  Maybe this is how life really is - just eight minutes.  When I am old, and my body is worn, will my life feel like just one long eight minute adventure?  May we not be so plank-eyed and self-absorbed as to waste the days that our Creator has gifted to us for His purposes. 

Until We Chat Again,
The Plank-Eyed Girl

The Plank-Eyed Girl: Which Instrument and Which Author Will Tell Your S...

The Plank-Eyed Girl: Which Instrument and Which Author Will Tell Your S...: Tonight, effortlessly,  I  draw my pen across the paper.  The smooth, colorful, purple ink magically adhering to the paper. Something...

Which Instrument and Which Author Will Tell Your Story?

Tonight, effortlessly, I draw my pen across the paper.  The smooth, colorful, purple ink magically adhering to the paper. Something about this is inexplicably enticing, mesmerizing, and familiar to me. The pen seems to dance across the page like a ballerina on pointe. A stream of beautiful, powerful words appear as the pen moves. These words are permanent and indelible.  

Pausing to read what has been penned, I realize that these words silhouette my heart's plans, desires, and thoughts. Both ink and words flow effortlessly.  There is more begging to flow out.

I continue. More ink. More words.  More sentences.

Finally my fingers pause, the pen drops and my eyes focus in on the penned purple words. Oddly though, after one casual reading, I find my thoughts centering in on the permanency  of the ink.   It feels like the writing is calling out to me. It is telling me that I have a say in my life, trying to convince me that it means I have control over my journey because I have used ink.

I pull the soft yellow blanket over me and ponder the "Writing" which is precariously resting on the arm of the overstuffed purple chair.  

It reminds me of a new chickadee ready to take flight for the first time.  Snuggling deeper into the coziness of the cushions, my mind races back to a similar piece of writing done with the same type of ink ten years ago.  Suddenly, I am propelled up and out of the chair.  Like a human cannonball being shot out of a rocket, I fly with abandon into my bedroom, drop on all fours with my bottom in the air and dig in the tub under my bed.  Surfacing with the paper, I return to the safe coziness of my purple chair.

Gingerly I unfold it.   It reads like this:

  1.  Quit teaching at 20 years

  2.  Design clothing

  3.   Have grandchildren

  4.  Live on the beach in a tropical climate

Closing my eyes, the realization whacks me in the head that NONE of these things have come true, even though they were written passionately in purple ink.  Hum.....

I like ink.

It is smooth.

It flows freely and almost effortlessly.

It comes in pretty colors.

It is continual.

It is permanent.

Why had I been thinking that if I wrote in ink, it was supposed to happen?  I even discovered additional notes with "steps" to ensure I reached these goals. However, here I sit with NONE of them accomplished. My mind is vacillating between amusement and disappointment.  Honestly, at the moment, it is giving me whiplash.  What kind of "False Beliefs" have I had about who is really in charge of my life?

How plank-eyed of me to think that I would or could "plan" the trajectory of my days, let alone my life by putting it in "ink".  Very little of my life has turned out as I planned or even thought it would. God has orchestrated my days for His purposes and it has been one unpredictable, marvelous, painful, and wild adventure that I wouldn't trade a moment of for accomplishing any one of those goals.   

Maybe this plank-eyed girl will try writing in pencil.  

Until We Chat Again,
The Plank-Eyed Girl