Morning. Today. 5:01 a.m. First train to Grand Central.
Dark Sky reports 33° F, feels like 25°. Feels like: Not Spring. March 5th. Spring backward. Falling and stumbling forward.
I wedge myself into a two seater, nudging the occupant awake. (Same occupant who was sprawled across two seats). He’s annoyed. I’m annoyed that he’s annoyed. I’m way more annoyed.
I glance up at the few unfortunates standing in the vestibule. Now they should be annoyed.
But for the low throb of the annoyances, and the giant overhead heaters blowing through the vents, the train car is silent. No talking. No whispering. No paper shuffling. Nada. Silence.
It’s as if Jack Kornfield blew the whistle and yelled Go: “It was the silence, stopping and taking a breath, opening the heart, seeing that the whole planet, and everything on it, is holy.”
And at that moment, the lead-weighted shoulders are freed.
The soles of the feet, through the leather soles of my lace-ups, feel the vibration of the steel of wheels on the steel of the tracks, bumping along with the rhythmic skip of steel on steel at the ties.
The seat under me is soft and shifts with each rail tie. The train car rocks, my body sways ever so slightly left and right and then back again. My knees gently knock on the seat in front, first right knee then left.
Feet, knees, palms, seat — sensations are elevated.
I close my eyes. Drift off, and float along on Kornfield’s holy train.
His holy car. Holy Cow.
I awaken to the conductor’s announcement: “This station is Grand Central. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.”
Meditation? Nah.
Mediation is not for real men.
Notes:
Live & Learn 