Bus 14-1 is a moving accident waiting to happen, and the most peaceful place on earth, all at the same time. It happens to be my bus. My personal office, my thinking space, my main source of action in my day, my high risk adventure, the place I figure out my unknowns. For one generally peaceful hour in the morning and one more grueling hour at end of day, each day of the workweek, I enter the 14-1.
The bus driver holds the worlds of all those who ride..delicately balances all of them in one hand while we turns the giant wheel with the other, blue cotton gloved hand, maneuvering it to and fro, honking generously, in none but Korean driver-style. I wonder how many accidents will be luckily avoided today, how many times the driver will save the day, how many times he will in turn almost cause an accident..and if he realizes how stressful his job really is. He has probably been doing it for so long, he doesn't even know it anymore. He protects them well, gets them from important places to other important places, on time, come rain, wind or yellow sand. Yet he doesn't merit even a small greeting from most. He is so accustomed to being treated as a machine, that he doesn't know what to do if he is actually acknowledged or given a proper hello. It is so off balance, yet I wonder if I am the only one who sees it.
I always sit in the front right single seat. It is my seat. No one dares to sit there. They must all know it is my seat. On all thirty 14-1 buses. Or perhaps it is the seat for sick people or those who are developmentally challenge. I am culturally and linguistically challenged in Korea, so how would I know? Nonetheless, I have one sort of challenge or another on any given day, so I remain the sole proprietor of the front right single seat. It is starting to become a very comfortable place.
The odd day I am lucky enough to see a few familiar faces on my way to or fro. There are the three men in dark jackets and ball caps who get on by the major construction. They usually stare at me a while and then talk among themselves. I wonder what they do for a living and where they are going. They look like construction workers, but they are never dirty. There are a couple of women, my guess is they go to their skincare clinic or similar job and put in their days' work. And then there is me. I am definitely a regular.
Everyone on the bus has their device, even me. Old ladies and twelve years olds, everyone. They seem memorized by whatever it is they are watching on their phone screens. Video or drama, I imagine. They transport to one world or another, anywhere but remaining mentally on the bus, I suppose. Me, I listen to Martin Luther these days via MP 3 files a my earphones. He makes my brain wake up and do a little dance, before it settled in to a mid functioning level when my teaching day begins. He also makes me realize that people are the same, over the years. The true nature of people remains. And God never changes either.
The first blooms of spring are out on the trees. Magnolias and cheery blossoms. Everything around is brown, brown leaves, brown dead tree branches, old brown grass from last years' summer. And then, suddenly, there is a small burst of colour. It is so vibrant against the brown it seems almost unnatural, like it shouldn't be there. But my eyes know better. My eyes have been itching for this colour for months.
The first pink and yellow flowers are like little warning bells, spring is riding in, prepare the way. Stand up straight and give it a proper welcome. The blossoms, however, are white and cottony. They are like fresh towels out of the dryer. They wrap themselves around the entire scene and make it soft. They want you to sit down, or lie down, stare at the sky, forget all the circumstances which make everything seem brown.
Sometimes when I ride the bus I forget where I am, what country am I in, where am I going, why am I going there. I supposed the challenged chair is the right place for me. Either that, or I have found a place where I can see that these things are only the circumstances. They are not what brings the meaning to my life. What brings the meaning is that I am compelled to say hello and goodbye to the bus driver. Compelled by love, I suppose, for my fellow human being.
God's landscape which he continuously recreates each second that goes by, is enough of a gift to remind me that love does make the world go round. It makes the flowers bloom vibrantly, even among the old dead brown earth and sticks. It makes me also know that I cannot go to any place, not even the end of this earth (for Korea might be almost the farthest place from my home) where he doesn't not reach me with his gifts and with his love.
On Saturdays and Sundays I sort of miss 14-1 and I am tempted to take Avaih for a ride on it...to anywhere.
The bus driver holds the worlds of all those who ride..delicately balances all of them in one hand while we turns the giant wheel with the other, blue cotton gloved hand, maneuvering it to and fro, honking generously, in none but Korean driver-style. I wonder how many accidents will be luckily avoided today, how many times the driver will save the day, how many times he will in turn almost cause an accident..and if he realizes how stressful his job really is. He has probably been doing it for so long, he doesn't even know it anymore. He protects them well, gets them from important places to other important places, on time, come rain, wind or yellow sand. Yet he doesn't merit even a small greeting from most. He is so accustomed to being treated as a machine, that he doesn't know what to do if he is actually acknowledged or given a proper hello. It is so off balance, yet I wonder if I am the only one who sees it.
I always sit in the front right single seat. It is my seat. No one dares to sit there. They must all know it is my seat. On all thirty 14-1 buses. Or perhaps it is the seat for sick people or those who are developmentally challenge. I am culturally and linguistically challenged in Korea, so how would I know? Nonetheless, I have one sort of challenge or another on any given day, so I remain the sole proprietor of the front right single seat. It is starting to become a very comfortable place.
The odd day I am lucky enough to see a few familiar faces on my way to or fro. There are the three men in dark jackets and ball caps who get on by the major construction. They usually stare at me a while and then talk among themselves. I wonder what they do for a living and where they are going. They look like construction workers, but they are never dirty. There are a couple of women, my guess is they go to their skincare clinic or similar job and put in their days' work. And then there is me. I am definitely a regular.
Everyone on the bus has their device, even me. Old ladies and twelve years olds, everyone. They seem memorized by whatever it is they are watching on their phone screens. Video or drama, I imagine. They transport to one world or another, anywhere but remaining mentally on the bus, I suppose. Me, I listen to Martin Luther these days via MP 3 files a my earphones. He makes my brain wake up and do a little dance, before it settled in to a mid functioning level when my teaching day begins. He also makes me realize that people are the same, over the years. The true nature of people remains. And God never changes either.
The first blooms of spring are out on the trees. Magnolias and cheery blossoms. Everything around is brown, brown leaves, brown dead tree branches, old brown grass from last years' summer. And then, suddenly, there is a small burst of colour. It is so vibrant against the brown it seems almost unnatural, like it shouldn't be there. But my eyes know better. My eyes have been itching for this colour for months.
The first pink and yellow flowers are like little warning bells, spring is riding in, prepare the way. Stand up straight and give it a proper welcome. The blossoms, however, are white and cottony. They are like fresh towels out of the dryer. They wrap themselves around the entire scene and make it soft. They want you to sit down, or lie down, stare at the sky, forget all the circumstances which make everything seem brown.
Sometimes when I ride the bus I forget where I am, what country am I in, where am I going, why am I going there. I supposed the challenged chair is the right place for me. Either that, or I have found a place where I can see that these things are only the circumstances. They are not what brings the meaning to my life. What brings the meaning is that I am compelled to say hello and goodbye to the bus driver. Compelled by love, I suppose, for my fellow human being.
God's landscape which he continuously recreates each second that goes by, is enough of a gift to remind me that love does make the world go round. It makes the flowers bloom vibrantly, even among the old dead brown earth and sticks. It makes me also know that I cannot go to any place, not even the end of this earth (for Korea might be almost the farthest place from my home) where he doesn't not reach me with his gifts and with his love.
On Saturdays and Sundays I sort of miss 14-1 and I am tempted to take Avaih for a ride on it...to anywhere.
T, I love this...thank you for sharing this and more your love for fellow man keep growing..keep loving,sadly it's what's missing in our world...everyong keeps trying to find it.
ReplyDeleteLove you & Miss you
Connie
Thank you for sharing your trip through life.
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