A Few Moments

Think      breathe    slowly
inhale              exhale
allow             the calm         to envelop

 I'm spending so much time these days rushing through, squeezing in, multi-tasking in the truest sense, that I sometimes fail to recognize the few moments during which I can allow calm to prevail.  (Even the word prevail is loaded with the effort of overcoming and the impending threat of chaos or, at least, busyness.) 

At times such as these when I can welcome the rhythm of the train rolling along the tracks and tune out the conversation of some and syncopated beats escaping the headphones of other fellow straphangers, I am grateful.  Each opportunity, a joy.  There are toxins yes, but, in these moments, they are limited.  The occasional onion-laden burger eater does distress the faculties, as do the mariachi bands, drummers, and whatever it is that woman who bangs and sings, "It ain't no joke, for real I'm broke" in an effort to garner money from other subway riders does.  The presence of these polluters intrude upon my opportune mental quiet.

Is there a point here?  I ask myself as I look up and notice that this evening's ride is a less crowded one as compared to my usual commute; there is no passenger seated or standing in the arc of chairs around me.  My personal space restored, I feel as though I am frolicking in a meadow.  (A bit ambitious? Still, I do.)  I am breathing air not immediately released from another's nostrils which is tantamount to fresh in this largely underground railway where at any moment the stench of rat excrement or decay can climb into one's nostrils and seize one's sensibilities.  But, the point?
The point, I suppose, as I cross the venerable Manhattan bridge, the cream-filling of a Brooklyn-Manhattan bridge sandwich, is that any small bit of peace/tranquility/quiet/calm one can muster in this oxymoronic cosmos is a good bit.

As I wrote the last three words of the previous sentence, which I thought would conclude this writing exercise (and yes, I do write in a journal with pen and paper sometimes), the train doors opened to Grand St. and the underwhelming odor of closing fish markets swept through the train car.

At least I had a good little bit.

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