The doors close. Someone's elbow is in your back. The train lurches, stops in a tunnel, and a voice announces a "temporary interruption". All around you, people stare at their phones, their jaws tight.
You can't make the commute disappear. But you can use three minutes of it to come back to yourself, without closing your eyes, without moving, without anyone noticing anything at all.
Minute one: feet and hands
Feel your feet on the floor of the carriage. Notice the vibration of the train through your soles. If you're holding a pole, feel its cold metal under your fingers. If you're sitting, feel the seat supporting your weight. Let your shoulders drop a centimeter.
Minute two: breath and sound
Breathe in through your nose, slowly, for a count of four. Breathe out through your nose for a count of six. Repeat. As you breathe, let the sounds of the train become a kind of music: the hum of the motor, the squeal of the brakes, fragments of conversation. Don't fight them. Just listen.
Minute three: one soft point
Choose one thing to rest your eyes on. Not a screen. The pattern of the seat fabric, a reflection in the window, the coat of the person in front of you, an advertisement's colors. Look at it softly, as if it were a painting. Notice its color, its texture, its light.
Then, when you're ready, let your attention widen again.
Why it works
Commutes are stressful partly because we spend them bracing: against the crowd, the delays, the day ahead. These three minutes don't change the journey. They change how much of yourself you spend on it. Repeated daily, they can turn the most tiresome part of the day into a small, private practice.
Something for the journey
The First Letter is a short sensory meditation on receiving a letter, to read or listen to on your way to work, with a sample of my magazine, "(meditating) On Art". It's free, and it fits perfectly between two metro stations.
Remember to take as much time as you need, and meet me at the next one.
Love, Evi