Living In Transit

... And when we pass each other, I look into her face
wondering what we have in common
where our minds converge
for we do not pass each other, she passes me
as I halt beside the fence tangled in snow,
she passes me as I shall never pass her
in this life

- Adrienne Rich, Excerpt from Transit

Nearly two weeks ago, I ran a 5K race in Warsaw and was struck by three things: one, the fact that over 10,000 Varszavians gleefully hit the streets for an endorphin high; two, the strange solidarity of traveling in an ageless, nameless pack of anonymity; and three, the fact that when prompted to do "the wave" by a local DJ riding in a Hummer, every single runner threw her hands in the air on command. I suppose the collective obedience to perform such an act as "the wave" is a lingering effect of Communism; follow the leader and do as you're told, or else...

Running in Warsaw serves several functions for me. For one thing, it allows me to navigate the city. I trust myself on my feet far more than I trust public transportation (although to tell the truth – and this is a bit embarrassing – I know the tram and bus routes in Warsaw far better than I know the red and green lines in Boston). Running also serves as a virtual form of videography. Since I don't incessantly take photographs and I don't really make art, running allows me the luxury of having a sense of image-retention. I don't look at the ground while I run; I just let my eyes wander from flowers, to pigeons, to people. In essence, my mind becomes a spinning reel of images that I access on the brink of sleep or in the meditative stirs of ginger-root tea. But most importantly, I enjoy the anonymity of being a runner in a place where I'm virtually unknown. As much as I like being recognized, I also relish in the feeling of being pleasurably insignificant. There is a certain comfort, a certain simplicity in meeting the gaze of an old woman out for an afternoon stroll and knowing nothing about each other's identity or history. It's this gaze alone, this hybrid energy of wisdom, hesitation, curiosity and compassion that sojourns into wonder. A millisecond later, it's gone.

* * *

During my second week in Poland (before I had any friends), I spent my evenings hiding out in a coffee shop that bears a striking resemblance to El Table. After briefly attempting (and failing) to subtly flirt with the chick behind the counter, I perched my latte-fisted foreign self in the most inconspicuous corner of the café – the place where I'd be least noticed but best positioned with a bird's-eye view of every patron. On one occasion, I sat directly behind a group of giggling tipsy teenagers. They were celebrating a birthday and little did they know, I spent a good part of my evening writing a prose piece about them. On another occasion, I eyed a group of 30-something women smoking cloves adjacent to a young mother flipping through the latest edition of Polytika with a toddler squirming in her lap. I was completely invisible, completely anonymous, and the feeling of being entirely unknown was quite calming. Having no one to talk to, I suddenly became keenly aware of my surroundings and much more interested in the lives of strangers sharing the same space.

* * *

This year on Yom Kippur, I paid a bit more attention to the English translation of each of the sins for which we repent. A disproportionate number of them have to do with speech – "impure" speech, "slanderous" speech, "lying", "idle gossip." We repent for each of these sins by mouthing the verse while holding our fists to our hearts. Since I've been termed a "word nerd," it's no mystery that I happen to enjoy playing with language; I treat it as a kind of sport. That's not to say that I make a concerted effort to engage in speech that the good book deems "sinful," but I suppose I attribute a certain liberality to the ways in which language can be expressed. But in thinking about all of my recent speechless encounters with strangers, I began to realize the limitations that language can place on relationships. How much do we alter our sensory capacities or our spiritual connections with others when we rely solely on speech as a mode of expression? If we ask questions and provide answers too hastily, might we paralyze our imagination and prematurely lose interest in what could be a relationship that transcends words?

There is a bit of irony in suggesting the limitations of language when I'm currently trying very hard to learn and speak Polish. Twice a week I attend a class at Warsaw University. In the company of three German women, three Hispanic women, an Austrian man, and a Turkish man, I build a vocabulary, conjugate verbs, and unlearn the bad grammar that I've already acquired in three months time. But in spite of my language quest, I'm developing a deeper mindfulness for the "whens" and "wheres" of its application. The dachshund-walking woman in my building who wears a lavender blazer and bears no teeth is someone with whom I've never exchanged words. I don't think I ever will. Instead, we will ride the elevator in silence exchanging only a smile, a gaze, or a gentle affirming nod. We will live our lives in transit.

... What is precious is never to forget
The delight of the blood drawn from ageless springs
Breaking through rocks in worlds before our earth;
Never to deny its pleasure in the simple morning light.
Nor its grave evening demand for love;
Never to allow gradually the traffic to smother
With noise and fog the flowering of the spirit.

- Stephen Spender