Busling and I board with a middle-aged man who had pulled his mask onto his chin to smoke a cigarette at the stop. He does not replace the mask as he enters the bus, nor after he is settled into his seat in the front section, directly behind the driver.
The driver, like most of the drivers we ride with in the Covid era (and very unlike the 27 driver from my previous post), lets it slide. He activates the automated announcement about masks—“Federal law requires that all passengers…”—and keeps driving.
The man, oblivious to the announcement, scrolls through his phone.
Another, younger man, whose seat is facing the maskless passenger, speaks up.
“Hey! Hey man! Ain’t you supposed to have your mask on?”
The maskless man looks up from his phone, takes a moment to register the comment.
Then he says, “Thank you,” and pulls his mask over his face.
A few years ago, the Climate Accountability Institute published a study that said 100 companies are responsible for 71% of global emissions. Since then, there’s been a growing chorus of voices insisting that our individual environmental choices (climate-related and otherwise) are meaningless—that we should redirect our focus from regulating individual behaviors and instead regulate major polluters. In other words, stop asking individuals to take shorter showers while allowing Nestle to drain aquifers at the rate of 400 gallons per minute.
I call BS.
It’s not that I disagree with the premise. Of course major polluters must be regulated (or better yet, eliminated). Of course individual choices cannot counteract the destructive impact of multinational corporations. But anytime we try to simplify or externalize a cultural problem, we’ve limited our ability to address it.
First of all, we don’t have to choose. We can stop Nestle from destroying wetlands and take shorter showers. And pretending that there is no connection between our individual actions and the health of our planet is both disingenuous and spiritually dangerous.
Last year, during the uprisings for racial justice, the internet and airwaves were filled with people talking and writing about systemic racism. This was (and still is) important and necessary. But what was almost completely missing from that collective conversation was self-reflection. Very few of the people pointing at the problem were asking, “How does the racism in our culture show up in me? How am I influenced by it? How do I perpetuate it? What practices must I adopt to identify and address it?”
Grace Boggs says we must transform ourselves to transform the world. Racism is a systemic problem, and systems are upheld by people. If we see racism as a problem “out there,” we will never eliminate it, no matter how many institutions we topple.
Just as racism will persist as long as it continues to live in individual humans, environmental harm will persist unless and until we change the way we relate to the ecosystems we are part of. On a basic level, we must acknowledge that many of the corporations doing damage to the planet are—directly or indirectly—supported by our individual choices. But this is deeper than counting damage or assigning blame.
One of the many lessons I learned from my time as a foster parent is that acts of care build love. My love for Baby S was the result of the daily work of caring for him: brushing his teeth, preparing his meals, cleaning his messes, comforting him when he woke in the night. My choice to love him despite the certain knowledge he would not be in my life forever might or might not have benefitted him, but I know for sure that it transformed me.
Prioritizing the planet in our big and small choices is important, even if the impact of those choices is “meaningless.” Concrete acts of care can help give us a sense of control and purpose in a scary, out-of-control time. And those acts will help us build a relationship with the land that sustains us.
It might be true that my own small choices don’t change anything in the material sense. (It also might not be true, since we can never know the impact of our actions, and because small actions can and do spread.) But what I know for sure is that every time I make a decision that is rooted in love for the earth (and in particular, for this land), it deepens my understanding of and appreciation for the living world. Humans who appreciate the living world will build cultures that prioritize its flourishing.
This doesn’t mean that we should ignore the big picture in favor of personal purity. We can still vote and protest and pressure and boycott and protect. But the impulse to protect stems from love. And I am willing to bet that any person putting their body on the line to stop a pipeline or preserve an old-growth forest has a relationship with the living world.
I’ve spent these past several years feeling slightly ashamed for the energy I put into small decisions. But I’m beginning to see that care and intention as part of the cultural transformation that is necessary to move us to the world we dream of. This transformation requires us to tell a different story about who we are and who we want to be; a different story about success, health, wealth, prosperity, and a good life; and a different story about self-interest. It requires us to slow down and pay closer attention to every engagement, every outing, every moment.
We can take our time and be intentional, instead of rushing through everything. We can prioritize care over convenience and do less, with love. We might not be able to measure the impact, but we will feel it.
I come from a family of tall, attractive athletes. I have three siblings, and all of them are over six feet. (My sister Carey, the shortest of the three, is 6’1”.) All the other Saulter siblings played sports at a high level. And all of them have head-turning looks.
Unfortunately, those genes missed me. I am barely 5’5”. I suck at pretty much every sport (and TBH, don’t particularly enjoy playing). And the looks … well, let’s just say that no one will ever mistake me for a model. Then again, I did spend a year as a model bus rider back in the day.
I digress.
The only trait I share with my sporty-looker siblings is that I love watching sports. Basketball is by far my favorite, and the team I loved my whole life—starting before I could have imagined the existence of a WNBA—was the Sonics (RIP). I am tempted to spend several paragraphs ranting about the evils of the NBA and professional sports in general, but I will refrain for now and try to stay focused(ish).
This year, for my birthday, my brother Jeremy gave me a gorgeous classic Sonics jacket. It’s far too cool for someone like me, but you don’t have to ask me twice to represent my city. The jacket is lightweight, so I wore it a lot in late spring, before the burning fires of hell descended.
Isn’t she lovely?
I was wearing the jacket when I boarded the 3 early last month, on my way to get a tattoo. (More on that in a future post.) The driver—who, happened to be tall, attractive,* and athletic—was wearing a Sonics mask. We shared the raised eyebrow of recognition and then exchanged compliments.
“Nice mask.” “I like your jacket.”
It was midday and somewhat early in the route, so for a few stops, I was the only passenger on the bus. I paused at the front to answer a few of his questions—where I had gotten the jacket, who was my all-time favorite player—thinking we would exchange a few pleasantries before I made my way to a seat near the back door. But he was so friendly and curious and interesting that we kept talking, and I eventually settled into the BDP seat for a real conversation—at least, as real of a conversation as you can have from several feet away, through masks and a plexiglass barrier.
We started with the Sonics, then moved quickly to my current love, the Storm, who were (are) having a great season. By the time he asked me which sports I played, there were several other passengers on the bus to hear my loud (though muffled) cackle.
I asked him how long he had been driving for Metro and whether he liked it. Four years** and yes. Mostly, anyway. We talked about our kids. He has an eight-year old who is kind and loves football and video games and wants to be just like his dad. Finally, as we headed down the hill from Harborview, I asked his name. Robert.***
At Third and James, a wheelchair passenger was waiting to board. I recognized this man from well over a decade of seeing him on buses and at stops. Robert recognized him, too. They greeted each other like old friends while Robert lowered the ramp, and I moved back to make room for the chair.
For the rest of the ride, I had a front row seat to their conversation. I listened as this elderly man, whose life beyond the bus I had never considered, talked of his younger days, of decisions he wished he had (or hadn’t) made, of relationships that had ended badly. I had never, before that day, seen this man smile or laugh. I watched in amazement as he called Robert by his name, gave him advice, and told him that his “friendly personality” made a difference.
“You’re a really good guy, man,” he said, just as I stood to exit.
Robert paused to look in his rear-view mirror before responding to the compliment.
“Bye, Carla,” he said. “It was really nice talking to you.”
________ * He even favored my brother a bit. ** To be honest, I don’t remember what he said, but I’m pretty sure it was less than five. ***It’s not his real name, but I’m not trying to share all the man’s business on the internet.
It’s 5:40 a.m. and 79 degrees outside. I’m up early, so I can go on a walk with my kids before it gets too hot to be out. At around 6 p.m. yesterday evening—otherwise known as 98 degrees Fahrenheit—I left the living room where my family was gathered, went to my bedroom, and closed the door. Then I sat on my bed and wept.
The best way to describe how I’m feeling right now is like the other shoe is dropping. I have known this was coming—not just intellectually, but in a deeper part of me. I could feel it. For decades, but especially since 2009, summers have been … different. Warmer. Drier. Longer. Other people’s comments—“Strange weather we’re having, huh?” or “Wow, what a great summer!”—would confuse me. Weren’t they feeling what I was feeling? Wasn’t it obvious that this was ominous rather than amazing?
As the intensity of the crisis has increased, my motivation—or rather, my ability—to respond has decreased. I can’t face the deeply disturbing changes or the misery they are causing, so I turn away. I retreat into my escapes—basketball and books—and obsess to the point of paralysis about my personal choices. I wash and reuse disposable plastic bags and then wonder if using the extra water is better or worse than throwing away plastic. I wander the grocery aisles searching for food items that aren’t wrapped in plastic, don’t contain palm oil, weren’t shipped from thousands of miles away, and on and on, until I can’t settle on a single food. Yesterday, I found myself arguing with my spouse over the carbon impact of buying a fan.
Meanwhile, our state continues to build highways, and corporations continue to destroy our shared planet with impunity.
I don’t have control over that. So I channel my energy into things I can control, like planning my family’s entire Saturday around four hours of bus travel, so we can attend my nibling’s birthday party in Tacoma without renting a Zipcar.
I don’t know what to do about the fact that our rivers are overheating, killing salmon and starving Orcas—or the incredible reality that the Olympic rainforest now has dry spells. So, I haul buckets of water to young trees my family has planted at various planting events around our neighborhood. One summer, during a particularly long dry spell, my kids and I spent hours, day after day, hauling water from the faucet in front of their elementary school to the mini-forest where we had planted trees a couple of years earlier—a good quarter mile each way. (We eventually figured out a more effective—and less strenuous—guerrilla watering strategy, but, much like Smooth Jazz‘s identity, it shall remain forever secret.)
These days, we are “forest stewards” (a bit of an inflated title, to be sure) at a park about five blocks from our home. On Thursday, in an attempt to repeat our previous baby-tree-preservation strategy, I used our hose to fill two buckets and carried them over to the park. My plan was to water a couple of the newer trees. But when I got to the planted area and saw how dry everything was, it felt stupid and pointless to be standing there with two not-quite-full buckets. What was a few gallons of water going to do against 110-degree heat? Who was I to pick and choose which of these distressed plants deserved a drink? What was even the point?
I told myself that it was better to do something than nothing as I dumped a bucket on sweet Shirley, the grand fir we named for my friend C’s mother.
Shirley the grand fir, after her Thursday drink
The next day, I returned with two more buckets, repeating, like a mantra, “It’s better to do something than nothing,” during the difficult walk to the park, and again as I walked by all of the dry, desperate plants I was not watering.
But is it? Was what I chose to do helpful, or did it just make me feel better? (To be honest, I’m becoming skeptical about the effectiveness of tree-planting efforts in general. But that’s a post for another time.) Did the watering just give me something to focus on, in the same way not driving gives me something to focus on—something other than what I know to be true: I am part of a culture that is making survival impossible for many of the species we share the planet with, including our own.
All over the world, humans are dying because of climate change. In my own city, people are working in dangerous conditions and suffocating in overheated apartments—if they are fortunate enough to have an apartment. Thousands are living without shelter, exposed to the extreme temperatures with few options for relief. The smoke will be here soon, and those of us who are able will again find ourselves hiding inside while others suffer and even die.
I don’t know what to do about any of it. I make donations to resistance efforts and mutual aid funds, invite neighbors to cool off in our downstairs.
Whenever I ride the 48 past Massachusetts, I pass the Century House Apartments, where my Grandma Bernice lived for several years during my childhood. This means that roughly 10 times each week, I have a visceral memory of being with a person who loved me well.
I don’t come from a “close” family. The only relatives I spent significant time with growing up were my dad’s parents, who separated when I was very young. Grandpa Marcellus was fun. He taught us to play poker and dominoes, to saddle a horse and bait a hook. He let us ride in the back of his truck and fed us strange treats like horehound candy.
But my grandma, she knew how to love.
Grandma Bernice stayed with our family often. She slept in the basement, on a bed with a sky-blue spread, and we kids always, always slept with her. She played with us—catch and dress-up and paper dolls she made herself—baked with us, listened to us. She had an ability to be present, to treat us like fellow humans instead of “children,” that felt like magic. No matter how long she visited, whenever she announced that she was ready to go home, we would beg her to stay “just one more night.”
Even better than Grandma’s visits were those times—maybe once a month or so—when she would invite one of the older kids to stay at her apartment. For me, there was nothing more coveted, more sacred, than an invitation to spend the night with Grandma.
I don’t remember much about that apartment at 23rd and Massachusetts, other than the rough texture of the cheap carpet and the rather institutional smell of the hallways. I have only snapshots of the time we spent together there. I remember “sewing” on her magical sewing machine. Listening to stories of her childhood with the six sisters she missed so desperately. Brushing my teeth with salt and soda. Watching her remove her wig and re-braid her white hair into two scrawny plaits before climbing into bed next to me. The feeling of her cool fingers as she scratched my back until I fell asleep.
And I remember our walks.
Grandma Bernice didn’t drive. For most of her life, a car was out of the question, an impossible expense. When her own children were young, she transported them on Seattle’s then-trolleys or on foot. Many years later, my dad tried to teach her in his own car, but she found the experience terrifying and abruptly discontinued the lesson.
For my entire childhood, my grandma bused and walked everywhere she went. When I was with her, I bused and walked, too.
Sometimes, on those one-on-one visits, Grandma and I would walk to the store. She would buy ingredients for dinner and maybe a copy of the Enquirer, which she considered evidence that we were living in the End Times. Sometimes, we would walk all the way to Douglass-Truth for story time. Sometimes, we would walk just to walk.
Grandma Bernice was the only adult I knew who really noticed things. As a country girl living in an apartment with no outdoor access, she missed dirt. When she walked, she would gather leaf skeletons and flower petals, which she sometimes used to make art. She would ooh and ahh at people’s gardens—and sometimes sneak a flower or two. (Later, she would press those stolen beauties between the pages of her Bible to preserve them.) Sometimes, she would walk up to a tree and wrap her arms around it in a true embrace. If I listened closely, I could hear her whisper, “Thank you.”
This practice of walking just to walk continued far beyond my grandma’s time at Century House. She walked no matter who she was visiting or where she was living, no matter the conditions. Nothing deterred her—not stormy weather, not heavy traffic, not even repeated purse snatchings.
Even though I cherished my time with Grandma Bernice, I didn’t always cherish those walks. When we walked to get somewhere, I couldn’t match her pace. I’d find myself blocks behind, exhausted and miserable. When we walked just to walk, I quickly grew bored. When could we go back inside and do something?
But somehow, over time, I have become my grandma. Of course I love the bus, but walking is my favorite way to travel. I walk to get places, yes, but I also walk just to walk. To clear my head. To experience the seasons. To notice. Sometimes, I even stop to thank a tree.
Back in the Before Times (aka, two months ago), when I actually went places, I would sometimes rent a Zipcar for the day, usually to visit family and friends who live outside of reasonable busing distance. Of course, when it comes to buses, I’m not above pushing past what is reasonable, but other obligations and service limitations do occasionally constrain my ability to spend an entire day traveling 23 miles.
I digress.
On those Zipcar days, every time I found myself driving near a bus or rolling past a full bus stop, I would feel a pang, even a bit of FOMO. Seeing a bus when I’m not riding hurts my bus chick heart.
This is how I feel every day now when I go outside—usually to walk in circles around my neighborhood—and I see 3s and 4s and 8s and 27s and 48s rolling by, often completely empty. Except these days, it’s not a just a brief pang. It’s an ache, a cracking open, an interior crumbling.
It’s grief.
As a naturally anxious person who has lived through many of Metro’s ups and downs, I have rehearsed a fair number of transit disaster scenarios in my head. But never, not even in my worst anxiety spirals, did I imagine the current reality: that the bus would become a vector of a global pandemic, that anyone with the option to stay home would be asked not to ride, that loving your community would mean not riding the bus.
How can I explain what the bus means to me? I have been writing this blog for 14 years and still have not managed to put it into words.
The bus is my stability, my comfort, my assurance that the world is as it should be. It is my opportunity to be with other people I would otherwise never have the chance to meet.
On the bus, I am invisible but also seen, alone but in community, moving but sitting still.
I know that this is bigger than my personal loss. Drivers are risking their lives to transport people who must travel. Major service cuts are limiting those people’s access to food and jobs and medical care. The economic crash caused by this disaster will make it near impossible for Metro to restore service when it’s finally safe to ride again.
But the thing about the bus is that it is both personal and collective. My loss is the community’s, and the community’s loss is mine.
And right now, it feels like a cyclone has hit, and we’ll never get back home.
For as long as I can remember, the bus has been a part of my life. At certain times, it has loomed large, like when I was eight years old, riding across town by myself and feeling like someone who could be trusted with responsibility.
Or when I was 21 and couldn’t afford a reliable car but needed to get to work and school and wherever else I was going back then.
Now, I am 47. I have been living without a car for 16 years. The bus is still a big part of my life, but it doesn’t have the same surface importance. It is always there, facilitating my life—cherished, but not so much in the forefront of my awareness as a Really Great Transportation Option. My appreciation has moved to a deeper place.
I have always know that buses connect us by providing opportunities to share space, experiences, and conversation. I am just beginning to learn that riding the bus, if you are open and humble enough to accept the lessons it offers, can be a spiritual practice. This is true whether you love the bus or hate it. Maybe especially if you hate it.
Here are some of the spiritual lessons I have learned from my longtime love.
Practice surrender. More often than I would like, I have to wait a long time for my bus. Sometimes this happens when I am in a hurry, or managing children (though mine don’t need much bus-stop management these days), or exhausted. Sometimes, it happens when it is raining, and there is no shelter at the stop. Sometimes (oftentimes), it happens when I am feeling impatient: wanting to be in motion, in progress, on the way already.
Occasionally, in those moments, when I feel the urge to pace, or check my phone, or pull out my book or to-do list to “kill time,” I decide instead to surrender. Surrender to being “bored,” to getting wet, to maybe even being late, and just accept the moment for what it is.
Surrendering can mean engaging in an interesting or deep or silly conversation with my kids or spouse. It can mean taking a breath and paying attention to my surroundings. Or it can mean squeezing everyone under one tiny umbrella and resigning myself to wet socks.
We don’t control when the bus comes, and we don’t control the conditions under which we are forced to wait. We do control what we do with the moments we spend at the stop.
Practice hope. About five years ago, I had to attend an evening political meeting for work. By the time the meeting was over, it was close to 9 p.m., and I was in a hurry to get home. Back then, I didn’t have a smart phone, so I headed straight for the bus stop—which was several blocks away and in an isolated area—without checking a schedule.
I was a block and a half (plus a street crossing) from the stop when the bus pulled up. I knew that even if I ran as hard as a could, there was no way I was going to catch it. But I was so desperate to get home, so motivated to NOT have to stand at that deserted, dark stop for 30+ minutes until the next bus arrived, I decided to run for it anyway.
It was not a pretty run. I didn’t have on the best shoes. My bag and papers and meeting clothes (and, ahem, body parts) were flapping and bouncing all over the place as I stumbled along at my highest speed, fully expecting the bus to pull away before I even came close.
The bus stayed put.
I kept running. The bus kept staying.
By the time I made it to the stop, out of breath and disheveled, the bus was still there. I didn’t then and don’t now have any idea why.
The thing is, it really doesn’t matter.
When you run for the bus, you don’t know what might happen. Maybe (probably) you won’t make it. But maybe there’s a wheelchair that needs to be buckled in. Maybe someone will ask the driver for directions. Maybe a passenger will see you and ask the driver to wait. Maybe the stop is a time point, and the bus is a minute early.
You don’t have to worry about any of that. The only thing
you have to do is run as hard as you can until the bus drives away.
Or, until you catch it.
Be curious. I have the type of brain that likes to judge, label, and categorize. I’m an observant person, so I tend to notice patterns. My guilty pleasure is to sit with my spouse and categorize and label all the different people we encounter—on the bus and otherwise.
But every time I get curious and try to see the person behind whatever label I’ve attached, I learn. The more I practice this, the better I get at it, and the more often I remember:
We all love. We all suffer. Most of us are doing the best we can.
Judgments and assumptions isolate us from the people we encounter every day. Curiosity brings a richness to our interactions. It shines a light on others’ humanity. And it strengthens our own.
Don’t take it personally. I often say that the best thing about the bus is being surrounded by other people. And, the worst thing about the bus is being surrounded by other people.
Sharing a ride with the people you share the world with can ground you in your community, help you feel less alone, and deepen your empathy.
It can also be annoying as hell.
Over the years, I have (semi-)regularly been cut in line, pushed aside, propositioned, called names, and interrogated about my ethnic identity. And don’t get me started on the bus fouls I’ve witnessed!
What I’ve slowly come to learn is that strangers’ behavior towards me is not about me. (How could it be? They don’t even know me.) Their rudeness is about their own issues and whatever they are going through in the moment.
I can set boundaries (a la Chicklet, who is a pro) or respectfully ask for what I need (for example, a seat, if someone has their bag on one), without taking the behavior personally or letting it affect my own mood.
Take it personally. Just because a person’s bad behavior is a reflection of their own issues doesn’t mean that we can (or should) accept it. If someone is being harassed, and you are in a position to help, you should help.
Look for the beauty. Everyone who’s ever been on a bus knows that it isn’t always pretty. But I know that it is always beautiful.
Last Thursday, I barely missed the 8 on my way home from an errand and so found myself alone at a bus stop, loaded down with potting soil and live plants and with a decent wait ahead of me. It was one of those close-to-the-road stops with no shelter or bench or trash can, only a damp ledge in front of a nearby apartment building. I dropped my load and sat on that ledge, feeling restless and ready to get on with my day.
But on this particular Thursday, I decided to push through the restlessness. To not sink into a book or my phone or some other distraction to “kill” the 12 minutes OneBusAway told me I’d be there. Instead, I sat on the ledge and waited.
It’s October, so the trees were showing off, alive with that fleeting explosion of color that always feels like magic. The leaves were falling, not in big clouds like they do on windy days, but one at a time. The maple tree closest to my ledge released each leaf gently, like a mama bird pushing her baby out of the nest. I felt like I was part of something sacred as I watched each one drift to the dirty street.
Those twelve minutes I spent waiting have as much to do with why I ride as the extra time to read and connections with fellow humans. After all these years, my life on the bus continues to transform me. It reminds me that I am not in control, even if these days the waits are shorter and we have tools that can tell us just how long those waits will be. It teaches me to cherish the moments life offers me to simply be still.
And watch a bright orange leaf sail into the gutter.
As you probably already know, bus drivers are my version of superheroes. I am consistently awed by their kindness and humor and professionalism. (And yeah, I have had more than a few bus crushes on drivers.) Here are a couple of recent examples of the goodness they add to my life.
Thursday before last, Chicklet had a restroom emergency on the 48. By the time we reached our stop, she was approaching panic mode, and we hustled off the bus in a bit of a distracted state. Somehow, in the commotion, my phone fell out of my coat pocket. I realized I had dropped it just as the bus was driving away.
WOMP.
After we made it home, I tried calling the phone a few times in case there was someone sitting near it, but no one answered. I kicked myself for my mistake, filed a lost item report on Metro’s website, and let it go.
When Bus Nerd arrived home, I filled him in on our (mis)adventure. Ever the problem solver, he texted my phone with a message for whomever found it to please call his number. I wasn’t optimistic that this would work, since, like most people, I have a password on my phone. Miraculously, about 20 minutes later, Bus Nerd got a call. The 48 driver had found the phone! He let Bus Nerd know when he would pass through our neighborhood again so that someone could meet the bus and get it. Like the last time I lost something important on the 48, my beloved was kind enough to handle the retrieval.
I still have no idea how the driver saw the text (was he holding the phone at the exact right moment?); there was no time to ask during the quick exchange. But superheroes can do anything, right?
A few days after the miraculous phone recovery, this delightful human drove the 27 I rode home from a Saturday morning appointment.
She had left a sweet surprise on every seat.
On the way off the bus, I complimented her on her decorations — and her kindness. She said, “I figured, if I have to work the holiday, I might as well bring it with me.”
