If I go downtown, I almost always take the Brown Line home. Rushing off to a meeting or a theatre might involve switching over to the subway, which is faster, but in coming home, I want to slow things down, especially my mind.

I like to take the Brown Line home because everything moves slower. There are more stops, more neighborhoods to pass through. More to look at.

I love looking out the window as the train crosses the north branch of the Chicago River. Houses along the river have their own docks and beautiful gardens. It’s easy to forget that I’m in the city.

I also love looking inside. At the people riding with me.

One day last week, I was returning home from the Loop on the train. I was in a foul mood.

Things didn’t work out around a planned lunch date, and I just got an email from my accountant that I might owe the IRS a totally unexpected sum of money. I needed to respond a proposal and didn’t know what I wanted to say. Blah-blah-blah.

I watched as commuters hunted up seats and anchored their ear buds in place or ran their index fingers across the face of their smart phones. I fought my habitual annoyance at seeing young, fit riders failing to offer their seats to older commuters or people who might not handle 25 minutes of standing with the same ease.

I observed the train car filling up — with backpack toting students, veteran shoppers, navy suited job seekers. Then it exhaled them in little bursts as we headed towards Kimball Avenue. Like a polite reaction to a joke everyone’s heard before. Ha-ha-ha The interior of the car became less dense.

The train car seemed much lighter after Montrose, and I caught sight of a small boy, maybe six or so, asleep on his mother’s lap only a few feet in front of me.

The sight made me smile. I thought that nothing could shake me out of the cycle of my mental chatter, from my decision to be displeased or worried. But seeing this child, unnamed to me, asleep in his mother arms, made me happy.

He was tired. He fell asleep. He felt safe because he knew his mother wouldn’t let him fall. He didn’t worry about getting off the train at the right time. It was that simple.

He wore his innocence like his jacket and scarf. Ever so close but without forethought or plans as if he forgot his body filled them. Seeing his blissful face in dreamland (or not) made me think about going home in a different sense.

I might take the Brown Line when heading home from downtown. I might step a little quicker in anticipation as I turn down my alley and go up my back stairs, but returning home is not about an address or where I check my mail.

The T.S. Eliot line from the Four Quartets came to mind.

We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time…

I recognize that my foray into the city is not of major consequence in my soul’s journey.

Still, seeing the innocent sleep of this child reminded me that coming home is about returning to a place where I trust I will be safe, where I trust what I need will be in supply; a place that has nothing to do with striving.

A place to just BE….

And even though I spend enough time there, returning home after activities in the world, it is fresh and welcoming.

Looking out the window of a Brown Line train then looking in and witnessing trust and innocence in another passenger is no small thing.