It was a typical pre-COVID spring morning in San Francisco. A little bit overcast, a little bit noisy. The city streets were slowly crowding with a fusion of businesspeople, tourists, and street entertainment. The day was bursting with potential. I meandered from my hotel to the closest metro station. I was on a very important mission to taste Anthony Bourdain’s favorite burrito at Taqueria El Farolito.
I descended the concrete steps into the station and waited in line at the attendant booth to make sure I had the best route. As the line moved up, an old man approached the counter from the other side of the booth where the metro platforms stood. He was dressed in worn clothes, carrying an array of plastic bags.
Suddenly, he banged on the plexiglass with both hands and yelled, “Help, I want to get out! Get me out of here!”
The attendant asked the old man where he wanted to go. He responded, and the attendant hit a button that opened up the turnstile and allowed the old man to pass back through to the entry and exit side of the station. The old man walked off.
Several minutes later, I reached the counter and had just finished speaking with the attendant when the old man re-appeared, banging on the plexiglass this time louder than before. He had ducked under the turnstile, back to the platform side of the station.
With his face pressed tightly up against the glass so his words sounded slightly muffled, he screamed, “please, help me! I need to get out of here!”
I looked at the old man, then glanced behind me. Sunlight shone from the top of the concrete steps, cascading an inviting shadow on the sides of the walls. There was the street above, not 50 feet away. I headed to my metro platform, wishing there was something I could do.
Over the last several months of quarantine, I’ve often thought about the old man at the metro station. Somewhere along the way, through whatever trials life threw at him, his traumas and his struggles and his circumstances led him to a point where his mind believed he was trapped. Confined in an invisible prison cell, when the way out was just within reach.
I don’t claim to know what it’s like to be the old man, and I sincerely hope he’s okay. I believe every person has something valuable to teach, if you’re open to the lesson. On those days when I feel trapped – literally and figuratively – my negative thoughts on a continuous loop, seemingly stuck under an ominous cloud reminiscent of the movie Groundhog Day, I reflect on what he taught me.
He reminded me of what it’s like when you’re cut off from your inner self. Everyone’s situation is different, and the old man reminded me of how fortunate I am to be in circumstances where I can reconnect with myself and choose. I choose how I feel, how I think, how I react, and what I do. Regardless of whether the rug’s pulled out from under me and chaos is unfolding, I’m the only one who gets to choose for myself.
Most importantly, I can always, always find a way out of whatever I’m experiencing – if I choose to come back to myself and remember.
The old man helped me find my way out. I hope he found his way out, too.
If you like this article, check out: https://stories.harnessmagazine.com/reflecting/
