I was oddly irritated by a namaste wrist tattoo with flowers ahead of me on the bus. I was sitting in my favourite seat, the last double one, the one that has a strong plexiglas separator between it and the back door. You’d think I’d keep myself to myself and read my book nicely, but no. The tattoo drew my attention and walked right into my little space. It perhaps had an invitation from my curiosity.
I could have looked away. I could have let it decorate the woman who owned it without trying to see under her skin. But it irritated me and I wanted to know why.
Was it the perfect silver hair and upscale, floating, bohemian clothes getting on my nerves? She exuded wealth and privilege, such that it was surprising to find her on a bus in this prairie city where anyone who can drive, does drive.
Like so many prairie cities, it spreads and spreads, softly overflows villages, a puddle of loose-knit busyness under the wide sky. Taking the bus from one side to the other is a half-day journey, so anyone who can slip behind the wheel and reach the perimeter in 15 minutes tries not to catch their otherwise ecologically minded eye in the mirror as they impatiently wait to pass the slow, stopping bus.
But the woman was not driving. Her carefully coiffed and coloured silvery hair, her lovely nails, and her designer casual wardrobe said in well-modulated tones that she could certainly afford to drive her Jaguar or take a cab. Her choice to take public transit should have made me like her more. It didn’t.
I wondered if her obvious wealth fed a demon deep inside me, but the demon said no, not jealous of her. No reason, just look, you’ll see.
That was the moment when Silver Hair found she wasn’t where she intended to be. Public transit is set in its ways and bus ways are not always our way.
“Is there a bus at 2:19, then?” she asked the driver. “The right one?”
The driver–also a woman; does that matter? Would Silver Hair have behaved differently to a man?–the driver couldn’t know all the schedule details, and the woman had a smartphone quite able to access the transit app and website. I saw it as she read an article all about Namaste in the seat ahead of me.
What? I couldn’t help seeing unless I kept my eyes up. You’ll note, that I didn’t take a picture of her and post it as illustration. Resistance of temptation enough for one day.
“Well that doesn’t do me any good,” she said to the driver’s attempt to help. The tattoo and expensive draperies stalked off the bus.
Oh, little demon deep inside, I see. So rude, so entitled, so unpleasant. So many things wrong. It wasn’t the outer look of riches that irritated. It was the inner dearth resentfully pushing through the layers.
I think, if you tattoo it on the outside (or say it all the time), it’s always a good idea to live it on the inside.
That goes for god blessers, blessed be-ers, peace outers, and all the rest too.
And me.
Yes, unfortunately, there’s no escape. Now I have to consider who, besides my intelligent little demon, is peering out through my layers.
Who is skulking around inside me, speaking when I would have stayed silent, sending words to listening ears that I would have left unsaid? Who reaches invisibly to grasp at coat sleeves for attention? Some of those people inside me are not my friends, but I let them hang around.
I hope that if you meet one of those people, you will remember that I’m sharing space in my house and don’t always pay attention to who my roommates are.
I hope that I will remember the same for you and for Silver Hair when I see her again.
Take Away: Where does clear vision, accurate judgment, and healthy boundary-keeping step back for compassion?