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Stopping
(published April, 2008 in Ink on the Cat, a magazine of the Zen Community of Oregon. by Judy Seicho Fleischman
8am. I'm riding. Rush hour, packed subway train. I'm sitting, crouched, chinese style, beside a pole. My way of dealing with the situation, taking care of myself while trying to be attentive to reality of no seats and yet too hard for me to stand the whole way downtown. Been doing this for some time. Some think it's strange but pretty much, folks seem to swing with it. 175th street. Someone gets on saying, "don't push me." A Harlem voice responds loudly, "How can I not push you?! Someone's pushing me. We're all pushing. It's rush hour, train is packed. What do you expect?" A muffled reply, then loud response, "you don't want to be pushed, why don't you ride your own private car with a chauffeur!" This back and forth volley continues, growing more heated. Dead silence on train for several minutes of this. Then, a woman's voice, "OK, we get it. We got it. Now can you stop?" and another voice says, "please" in an exasperated tone. Of course, the result of this is more: "whatchu mean stop? Tell him to stop? not push me. be serious. how can I not push you..." and it's off to the races again. Now more folks chime in, and anger is building, "come on, just a few more stops, first thing in morning. Can't you stop?" and so on. Then silence, dead silence, the kind that kills spirit, kills dialogue. We ride, slowly to 59th street, that long ride from 125th. I sit in silence, listening, attuning, recognizing I cannot speak without heart being aligned with speech, so silence and presence must suffice for now. I breathe, feel. We get to 59th. Lots of space opens as folks get off. Then it comes to me. I say loudly, "whoever was pushing, feeling pushed, are you on the train?" and a woman replies, "I'm here." I say, "there's a free seat here. Would you like to sit down?" She comes over my way, I finally see her face. She is somewhere between middle age and elderly, shorter than I imagined and looks tired and determined to survive. I meet her gaze, I smile. She says, "no, I don't need to sit. I'm ok." I say, "Ok, well if you don't sit, I will. You sure you don't want to sit?" She says, "yeah, I'm sure." So I sit. A few breaths, then she begins, "How can I not push? It's impossible." I hear the collective sighs from all around, then a voice, "Oh, not again." I say to her so folks can hear, "it's tough. It's a tough thing." She nods. Then, I say loudly so everyone on the train can hear, "My dear friends. We survived 9/11. We did it with alot of kindness. We found a way and it was tough. So I'm making an appeal to you. Just because someone's having a tough time, we don't have to make them into an enemy, because tomorrow, it could be you." A woman calls out loudly from downtrain, "Amen!" I hear the tension shifting. Then I say, gazing into the few faces not looking down, "I'm asking you whatever helps you to feel kindness and compassion right now, to tap that so we can do this together, get through together. It would really make my day if we could do this. Thank you." A different kind of silence emerges. I notice people's faces shifting. Many are looking up, looking around. I feel a moment of stillness, even wonderment, like lost children suddenly discovering their way home. As I get off the train one stop after this, I touch a woman on her shoulder and say "God bless you." She and her friend smile and say, "you too."
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