Still Standing

For several days now, I've been riding the subway more frequently as a passenger, and it's been interesting to see things from that side of the tracks.

I've been disappointed that I haven't been running into many other subway musicians. I'm surprised that they've been scarce (maybe it's just my timing). The weather is beautiful outside, which I expect would make for good busking. On the other hand, on a beautiful +29 degree day, why would you want to spend any more time than you have to in a dark and dreary subway corridor?

The most obvious difference between my passenger experience and my busking experience is that when I'm a passenger, I'm moving, and when I'm a busker, I'm stopped.

I wonder, actually, whether this makes people uneasy.

In the city, we're all trying to get somewhere. The faster, the better. We're trying to move past the station we're in to a better place. A destination.

Meanwhile, the subway musician (and the panhandler, the Outreach salesman, the artist selling little paintings or bead necklaces) is stopped. Standing still. Staying put, right here and now.

And she's singing.

That's just weird.

Now, do you reward that kind of behaviour with a coin or a smile? If you do, what are you saying? That it's a good idea to jump off the track of forward-motion even for the time it takes to hear a song...or to pause long enough from a conventional career path (to spend time as a parent or as an artist) that you might consider never getting on again?

My impression from talking to people over the past year (friends, family and strangers) is that they're happy to support this activity as long as it appears to be headed somewhere. Indeed, many people who donate to me on the subway tell me openly that they hope I move ahead quickly and find myself on a more prestigious stage soon.

My own inclination is the same...to keep moving.

When I do find myself standing still, by choice or by circumstance, sometimes I'm slow to appreciate the beauty of stillness...and to celebrate, simply, still standing in the place that I am. I'm reminded of that old R.E.M. song: "Stand in the place that you live, then face north...think about direction, wonder why you haven't before."

It's coming up to festival season again. Folk festivals are prestigious landmarks for singer-songwriters. I like to play them. And, like many other highly-accomplished songwriters I know, I don't get booked to them as often as I'd like. There is more than enough music to go around. When well-meaning friends ask "So, are you playing lots of festivals this summer?" assuming that I am, it's with a pang of ambitious regret that I tell them, no, not this year.

Like the passengers moving through the station this morning, I often wish I was moving further, faster.

Instead, I am standing.

Still.

Singing.