When we lived in Florida many years ago, there was a man in our rural town who collected train cars. I had no idea how that works, but my son was eager to find out. He dragged me past my embarrassment and into a conversation with this stranger. It turns out he liked showing his cars to wide-eyed children.
Decades passed with no opportunities to climb aboard. Then our twins moved to Europe where public transportation is ubiquitous. They became fluent in schedules and etiquette, even when it took several legs to arrive at their destination.
I have been a passenger four times a
week for as many months, and noticed the exhale of letting someone else be the driver. I looked out the window, much more than my fellow passengers did, it turns out, who were mostly on their phones. I never spoke with the person at the wheel, if there is one, but I did converse with those conductors who scanned my card. They were friendly, especially a woman with curly hair who greeted us as if this was a hobby rather than a job.
There seems to be a bell curve when it comes to being in the driver's seat. My children were content to gaze at the landscape and ask their mother questions, which coincided with me navigating multiple freeways in Southern California. Then in the twilight of old age, we hand over the keys to the car and allow ourselves to be chauffeured. Yet in those middle years, it falls to us grown ups to steer the ship.
Being a passenger niggled those feelings of being a child again. Someone else knew the way and handled things like speed and direction and fuel. All I had to do was stay on board. It was a comforting feeling, once I came to believe the paper promises of arrivals and departures.
It feels like practice for the Real Journey.