The PATH train is romantic, mystical, spiritual.I have believed this ever since reading G.K. Chesterton’s The Man Who Was Thursday.
Chapter 1 of that novel, which is my favorite book after the Bible, features an open-air argument between an anarchist and a mysterious man who champions virtue. The anarchist, Gregory, says, “The poet delights in disorder only. If it were not so, the most poetical thing in the world would be the Underground Railway.”
The other man, Syme, replies, “So it is.”
The anarchist argues that the Underground is unpoetical for riders because it is predictable: “It is because after they have passed Sloane Square they know that the next station must be Victoria, and nothing but Victoria. Oh, their wild rapture! oh, their eyes like stars and their souls again in Eden, if the next station were unaccountably Baker Street!”
Syme responds with words that I live by: “The rare, strange thing is to hit the mark; the gross, obvious thing is to miss it. We feel it is epical when man with one wild arrow strikes a distant bird. Is it not also epical when man with one wild engine strikes a distant station? Chaos is dull; because in chaos the train might indeed go anywhere, to Baker Street, or to Baghdad. But man is a magician, and his whole magic is in this, that he does say Victoria, and lo! It is Victoria….”
With this in mind, when I enter the PATH train for that 14-minute ride beneath the Hudson River, I take a seat all the way up front, where I can see the signals. And, when I’m not reading my copy of Chesterton’s Illustrated London News Essays, Vol. 2 or (during the three minutes between 14th Street and 33rd Street) the Bible, I think about what those signals mean.
As long as the driver’s on the right track, he knows where his destination is, but he can’t see it while he’s in the long, dark tunnel. All he can see are these little lights that blink red, green, or yellow. To me, that’s like the life of one who’s following God. Even when I know my goal is holiness, I still have to watch that I don’t rush into things when God wants me to go slow, or stay in one place when God wants me to press on.
Riding the train into work every day gives one plenty of time to obsess over these things. It also makes one known to the driver, if one’s perched in the very front seat every time.
The other day, I had a moment to chat with one driver before the train started. “How many signals are there between here and New York?” I asked eagerly.
“Oh, I don’t know – 40, 50,” he replied.
“And you have to watch for every one,” I marveled. “I really admire how you can do that – all the concentration it takes, because any one of those signals could turn into a red light.”
I wasn’t being sarcastic, and I don’t think he took it that way. Still, he told me, in the nicest way possible, that my romanticism was ludicrous.
“It’s a boring job,” he said.
My face fell.
“It’s the same thing every day. It’s boring,” he repeated. “I’m stuck here in this vertical coffin, on this metal seat…”
He went on. I tried to look sympathetic. In another moment, I was saved by the bell of the closing train doors.
I realized that, when he leaves his “vertical coffin,” he may think that he’s done watching signals for the day. His job is hard, but his life is relatively easy.
With me, it’s the opposite. I love watching the train signals because they’re so clear. It’s when I leave the train that I worry, because God’s signals become obscured by the distractions of everyday life.
So I still envy the driver for the certainty he has by way of those flashing lights. And I’m thankful for every day that God’s word gives me a light unto my PATH. – Dawn Eden
Dawn Eden, a Hoboken-based writer, posts her work at www.dawneden.com. To submit your essays, write to: current@hudsonreporter.com.