Living Isolated Lives, Together

A bus ride, a realization, and a question we still need to answer

Image generated with AI

“I’m going on an adventure!” — Bilbo Baggins

I wrote this nearly fourteen years ago after taking the city bus for the first time in years. What began as a small personal adventure became a reflection on community, isolation, and the people whose lives quietly intersect with ours every day.

Reading it again now, the details feel like a snapshot from another season of my life. But the question at the heart of it feels as relevant as ever: How have we become so accustomed to living isolated lives, together?

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With tuque, gloves, coat, and backpack on, I make my way out the door into the cold, crisp winter morning air. Factor in the wind, and it’s about -35 Celsius outside.

Not cool. Very cold.

With each step, I hear the sound of snow cracking under my feet. Luckily for me, I only need to walk about 300 metres to my stop. I should have worn my boots instead of my shoes. My toes are already getting a bit tingly.

What is a daily routine for many is something of an adventure for me on this cold day. I am about to do something I have not done in nearly 15 years.

I look up at the sign and confirm with the app on my iPhone. Yep, this is the right bus stop.

I’m actually quite excited, for many reasons.

I’m not simply waiting for the city bus. I’m waiting for the bus because I’m headed downtown. I’m headed downtown because I have an awesome new spot where I can go to get some work done. And if I’m headed there, it’s all part of this new and exciting ministry we are now a part of.

Back to the bus stop.

My iPhone app reminds me that I missed the bus I was hoping for by about two minutes. Probably because I let my daughter hug and kiss me five times.

It was worth it.

I have to stand there and wait a few minutes. Fifteen, to be exact.

It turns out to be more like 25.

I hate the cold.

My toes are frozen. I’m shivering. I’m blaming it on the cold, although stress could have something to do with it. I’m not sure how this whole public transportation thing is going to work out.

I’m used to getting around in the comfort of my Grand Caravan. Hey, I’m a family man.

I step onto the bus with my three bus tickets in hand.

“Good morning,” I say to the driver as I slip my tickets into that little ticket hole.

“Sir, don’t forget your POP transfer,” she says, pointing to it.

“Oops. My first time.”

I take a quick look at my surroundings and pick a spot. There are still a few seats left, but it’s crowded. This is not going to be the comfort of my minivan.

I am in observation mode as we make our way downtown.

First, the technicalities.

Wonderful. There is a digital board that announces the upcoming bus stops. I can relax. I won’t miss my stop.

I want to be certain the driver knows when my stop comes along. No worries. There are plenty of buttons to press and cords to pull.

I map out my exit route. Simple enough. I just need to get up out of my seat and make my way to the exit. I might have to squeeze through a few people, but I can make it. I’ll give myself a one-minute head start, just to be sure.

Now that the technicalities are settled, my attention moves to the people.

I start getting excited.

This is like hitching a ride with a bunch of folks from my neighbourhood. We’re travelling together.

As an introvert and a guy who likes his space, you’d think this would be a nightmare.

But it’s not.

I feel connected.

These are my people.

I have no idea who they are, and they probably had no idea I existed until now. Perhaps many of them couldn’t care less that I do. But I’m interested in their existence.

We are fellow suburbanites. We share the same roads. We visit the same stores and restaurants. Some of us walk through the same parks, and maybe our kids go to the same school.

I wonder what they are thinking about. What is preoccupying them? What are their struggles?

This person could be in the middle of a life crisis. That person could be rejoicing over the birth of a child or a promotion.

For the next 30 minutes, this space becomes a teacher.

This space is a reminder of community.

This space is a reminder that our lives intersect.

This space is a reminder that, although we are headed to different places, we share the same road.

This space is a reminder that, in our individualistic society, we have become accustomed to living isolated lives, together.

This must change.

But how?

I get the feeling these bus rides will become filled with connections, conversations, and insights.

As I step off the bus, I catch myself thinking that I can’t wait to get back on for the ride home.