The Bus

The Bus

We are born onto a bus. At least that is the picture in my head, my metaphor of how we start the life journey. The bus is already rolling along, en route, coming from somewhere, rolling toward some destination we didn't get to vote on. We have no control. Aboard the bus is a cast of characters, other travelers we didn’t get to choose but will come to know intimately. These are--for better or worse--our families. We may feel blessed with them or cursed with them, or maybe a little of both; but we are destined to ride with them on this, their bus—our bus—for some years. We must adapt to life on the bus. Kind of scary, right?

Well, maybe you got to start your journey on a really nice bus like those private coaches that country stars tour in or one of those comfortable charters that haul bored seniors to casinos. It could be you found yourself relaxing on a smooth Greyhound, or grinding along some coastal road in a VW microbus, or jostling in the hectic chaos of a  city bus. With a little luck you got dropped on a decent bus with some good people. But maybe not. It matters a lot—our lives are essentially shaped on our bus.

My bus image? I opened my eyes to find myself bouncing along some rural Midwest highway in an old school bus that had been converted to a makeshift RV. On the bus were my dad, my mom, her aged parents, my 11-year-older brother, a black and white Border collie mix named Cindy, and me. I had no idea that our bus was old, odd, and hand painted (not hippie style—but more like someone tried to do a nice tri-color job using some spray cans and a brush). I was also blissfully oblivious to the
facts that this bus was in ill-repair and could break down or even crash—I was shielded from all these realities by, initially, my infantile, ignorant, innocence and later by a little psychological protective device called denial . I had no idea that our bus had “mechanical issues,” was just barely limping along, and headed for some really rough roads. Had I been given a choice...well, I wasn't, and neither were you. 

What was your bus like? Was it a stressed out, crazy bus or a pleasant, comfortable ride?

What kind of bus are you on now; now that you've disembarked from that first one and taken on the responsibilities and perils of piloting a bus of your own? Did you learn your bussing lessons early and well, from skilled guides, or do you feel inadequately trained and equipped to bus yourself and your family down the often bumpy and unpredictable roads of life? It matters, you know--lives are essentially shaped on the bus.

Copyright 2011 John D. Deyo M.A., MFT