The Walk Home

As I walked down Broadview hill, heading south from the subway station that I decided to avoid tonight, I thought about the one thing I did today that seemed to happen quickly and easily.

Early this morning, I filled out and mailed in my application to audition for next year's Subway Musicians' program. It was a pretty automatic decision. These days, whenever I run into another TTC musician, he or she asks "did you get your application in?" and we nod knowingly at each other.

Tonight the sky was a beautiful combination of violet and gold, with delicate pink clouds framing the skyline. The view from Broadview is exquisite: there's something about the angle of the view that puts the office towers in graceful perspective, their hard angles balanced by the gentle sweep of the long, curving hill.

The houses that look onto this view are very expensive, perhaps a million dollars or more apiece. There are a few apartment buildings too, which offer the same prime views for presumably more affordable rents. Of course, the view is free for all who decide to walk this hill or sit on a bench to appreciate it for awhile.

As I reflected on my decision to apply again, I wondered at my response to the musicians I've seen recently. Frankly, they did look down-and-out--not only when I was feeling tired and disconnected but also when I was in a good mood. Yesterday, as my son and I came back from a doctor's appointment, I made an effort to speak to a man playing a harp at Broadview station. (Because the performance area is now completely piled up with construction materials, he had boldly taken up residence right in front of the main staircase where he couldn't be avoided.) I approached him, change in hand, but he looked up at me with such weariness and caution, I quickly dropped my attempt at conversation along with my quarters.

I don't want to look that down-and-out.

So why risk it?

Why not stay above ground, choosing only to play the "good" gigs at the "right" places? Why not stay comfortable, setting my sights on the glittering city skyline instead of the dusty subway wall?

I think it's the crack in the wall that intrigues me, all those broken places at Broadview station that are taking the entire year to be repaired. As Leonard Cohen wrote, "there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in"... The light that gets in during dark moments is more appreciated, more necessary. It's then that songs do their best work.

It's a lot to ask of a song...to expect it to stop the train of fears and disappointments that threaten to overtake us all. It's truly miraculous that it occasionally does. Adam's music finds me at the bottom of a stairwell and lifts me up...a song idea overtakes me and the whole world is brilliantly new.

It's those little miracles we hope for that keep us coming back, I guess, like prospectors panning for gold.