Stay

10:45 p.m., Eglinton Station

My gig at a neighborhood pub has finished up early. It's Sunday night, on the August holiday long weekend. The Songwriter's Circle was a relatively quick one, with everybody playing five songs to a crowd made up mostly of "regulars".
A few friends had come to hear me--and had left after my last song--and all the musicians had cleared the place.

Saying goodbye to the few people left at the bar, I headed home, taking public transit. Eglinton Station was muggy and desolate. The Bagel Stop was closed up for the night and only a few sleepy people were straggling through.

I noticed the yellow dots (very clean ones, perhaps recently replaced) and walked on by, down the stairs and straight into a waiting train.

It kept waiting, doors open.

("But I don't have my amp! I already did my gig tonight!")

The doors stayed open.

Okay, fine. I get it.

I got up from my seat, hoisted up the guitar and exited the train. As I headed back up the stairs, I heard the three-note "doors closing" chime behind me.

I opened my guitar case, set my license up proudly inside it, and fished in my pockets for whatever spare change I could find. (We five songwriters had earned $7.00 each on "pass the hat" at the bar. I'd sold a couple of CDs too, to someone who already knew and liked my music, so I figured I'd done okay, relatively speaking.)

My guitar sounded quiet, and my voice sounded naked.

("What am I doing here?")

I played three songs, glad that I could make the music stay a little longer for myself tonight. In order to cut through the silence, and because I had no amp, I had to play with as much intensity as possible.

And sing with as much feeling.

I earned three "thumbs up".

And a dollar.

Then I could go home.

The light at the end of the tunnel

On October 8th, 2004, I arrived home from Pape Station on my first morning of singing for Toronto subway passengers, and I found a note on the kitchen table from my husband Dave.

It said "Congrats!! Now start writing."

So I did. And you started reading.

As I've arrived now at a stopping-point for this leg of the "Subway Music" journey, I'd like to thank Dave for being so encouraging throughout the writing of this blog, even as it's kept me tied up at the computer for many hours a week.

It's not over yet, of course. In response to many readers who have said all along, "It's not a blog, it's a book", I'd like to take time now to edit and shape it with an eye to publication. (One particular reader has brought my attention to its potential literary elements and encouraged me to strengthen them.)

This seems like a good time to say "Intermission!" or "End of Part One".

Why now? Well, first of all, I'm not stopping the actual singing. The TTC busking year runs until the beginning of October, and by that time everyone has learned whether or not they are accepted for next year. (I'm planning to re-audition.) Although I've slowed down because of family summer schedules, I'll be re-auditioning and singing regularly through September and hopefully into next season.

But the writing project began when I set out to audition last year, and so it's just beyond the one-year mark now. This is probably a good time to pause and navigate a bit. (And write some songs, too.)

I'd like to thank each of you for reading and offering your thoughts along the way. You are writers, musicians, teachers, painters, filmmakers, thinkers and doers...and you are an inspiration to me.

Among the many "lights" I have found in those tunnels, the most shining one may be that we each provide landing-places and junction-points for each other. We need each other to get our bearings, no matter where we think we're headed. If our work helps anyone move in the right direction, it's good work.

We can do it wholeheartedly, with love and confidence and gratitude.

The last time I was at Pape Station, several day-camp groups of small children came through, as did several families. There were more children than usual that day, and as you know, children have always been my favourite subway listeners. On this particular day though, I was so moved by their presence, I had to look away from them lest I start crying in response to their un-edited and generous looks of fascination. One of them, as she passed, saw my CDs in my guitar case and called ahead to her teacher, "Her name is Lynn!!!" as if that alone were a discovery of great importance.

Simply our presence is of great importance. While we're here, we cannot help but love.

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I will update the blog again after the auditions for the 2005-06 season, which take place at the CNE on the weekend of August 20th. I have to take time to prepare my 7-minute audition medley! I'll also let you know how the results come out.

I do hope I get in again...and at the same time it's a highly unpredictable process. Whatever happens, this year has taught me more about myself--and what songs are for and about--than I ever would have predicted. Also, although I haven't done a final tally, I've earned several thousand dollars at it, which has made a big difference in completing my CD, called "Broadview", which will be released in November. Four songs on the album ("Music Town", "Music Everywhere" and "Creature of Habit" and "Pennies") were directly inspired by my subway experiences, a number of other new songs have been written but are not yet recorded, and "I Would Recognize You" and "Luminous Veil" took on much greater meaning as I sang them for subway passengers.

Eagle-eyed readers will notice that I never did run into Billy James, the original subway musician I met twenty years ago. I tried to call him yesterday, and got his machine. I'll try again.

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Note: A manuscript version of the project does exist, and article-length excerpts are possible too. Suggestions are welcome, particularly if you have ideas about possible markets or other ways to bring the project to a wider audience. Not that there's anything wrong with self-publishing, of course! --lh

Ask, and you shall have tea-lights

I could have gone to Yonge & Bloor this morning, but instead I went to Pape.

In daylight, with the Coke stain removed, it looked better than it had on Saturday night. And I felt better. Yesterday night, after the streetcar ride, I'd played at an open mic called, appropriately enough, The Smiling Buddha.

It was was dimly lit, with tea-light candles (none of the other places I played ever had them), twinkly Christmas lights and round cafe tables...and a roomful of friends just waiting to applaud.

But I knew, after the conversation on the streetcar, that all my justification of needing a "real" stage rang false. Whenever I have trouble with busking, it's not about the external setting or the people passing by, it's about me and my thoughts, which frequently return to insecurities and comparisons. I have the ability to sing freely and joyfully no matter where I am; it's my mind that gets in the way, on an irritating and regular basis.

Mulling this over before going on stage last night, I picked up the tea-light and swirled the wax around, causing the flame to go out.

Meanwhile, the singer onstage asked aloud, "Is it the Smiling Buddha or the Laughing Buddha?"

+++

Today at Pape, I found myself disappearing in a new way.

I was less a focus of attention, and more a junction-point, like the subway station itself...and like my friend on the streetcar, who with generosity and delight passed on the wisdom of a busker I never knew.

At one point in the morning, a man came along, trying to keep hold of a crumpled-looking bunch of papers, at risk of being swept away by the ever-present subway wind. (Other than the fact that he was waving these scribbled-on papers around, he looked completely normal, by the way.)

"I'm writing about the human condition!" he said.

And then he went on to tell me something important and true about the human condition, which I agreed with at the time but which I can't remember now. The moment happened, and passed by.

And separately, along came two women whom I'd met at the station before. (One was the opera singer, the other was the first person who bought a CD from me in the subway, on my very first day.) After I introduced them to each other, they kept talking and arranged to meet again for the singer's next performance.

As I watched them smiling and laughing with each other like old friends, I stood off to one side, playing a little instrumental interlude.

(10:20 - 12:25: $19.71)

Connecting the Dots

I would stick them down at the head of a boardroom table. And in the grocery store. I would put them in Value Village and at Costco and in some very expensive store, the name of which I can't pronounce. I would create yellow-stickered artist areas in television studios and radio announce booths. I would put them in church. And in every school. I would place them in court and in Parliament, in hospitals and in jails.

I would lay them down in my living room, creating a refuge in case of argument. I would install them in my children's bedrooms (for them to use) and on my and my husband's sides of the bed. I would put them on every porch on my street. Yellow stickers would grow like dandelions in every front yard.

Even though I wouldn't need to, I would take them outside, to open fields, to hushed forests, to shoulders-of-the-road. I would take them to the top of the highest hill I could climb. And to the edge of the sea.

For the length of a song, anyone could enter that space and feel the magic of changing the world without being seen, of being powerful and yet invisible, of watching masks parade by and seeing masks fall away. By stepping inside that unusual, open-ended box (bounded by a dotted line, allowing you to step in or out, or to pass), anyone could take permission to be someone they didn't know they were. Someone both braver and smaller.

Inside each of these spaces, there would be room for a small open object, turned upward in an invitation: a hat, a cup, a guitar case or a cardboard box. In order to open up this receiving-place, the singer would have to not sing, but instead kneel down in a way so similar to praying, to allow others to take part in the rhythm of give-and-take, even if they weren't intending to, even if their eyes were fixed on something up ahead, and they were barely aware that they were giving anything as they walked by.

There would be millions of these little stages, defined by yellow dots, everywhere in the world. If you looked at them from a distance, they might appear as a map, a map of towns or subway stations, or like like a field of stars in the sky.

Stations in Life

I should tell you that a few days ago I declared angrily, "I'm not going back to the subway. I've gotten everything I can out of the experience!"

For a few days, I sat with this new outlook, feeling relieved that I'd reached that sane decision and confident that I was right.

I had come to the conclusion that it was somehow harmful to experience the feeling of being out-of-place and unnecessary while singing original songs for people who hadn't requested them. I thought that it was simply too uncomfortable...an unnecessary trial.

I figured that I could simply step away from that particular challenge, that I could choose not to confront the sense of alienation that arises naturally from being an artist and choosing to show one's true colours in public.

I chose not to focus on the many miraculous things that had happened to me since I began singing in the subway. Instead, I focused on external perceptions of myself: What are people thinking? Where is this path leading? ("Nowhere!" "Fast!") I reminded myself that I was supposed to be getting somewhere and that I'd better hop to it if I was ever going to make up for lost time.

After reaching the conclusion that busking wasn't for me after all, I found myself feeling amazed that I'd allowed myself to sing in the subways at all. I belong in a different station entirely! What was I thinking? I must have been suffering from some strange amnesia that made me lose my better judgement and follow some dreamy subterranean slope to who-knows-where.

Well, time to wake up. Get on with things. Important things. Certainly more important than singing at Bloor & Yonge, where I was scheduled for the past four mornings.

Meanwhile, I took a streetcar ride to see a friend of mine perform, and I ran into a man I knew from Fat Albert's. I had bumped into this fellow by chance several times...and being the kind of person who notices and appreciates such things, he celebrated each of our coincidental meetings as some kind of little miracle.

"Yes, yes," I said, "what a wonderful coincidence." Meanwhile I was actually feeling impatient, slightly annoyed that I'd have to share my ride with someone, and wondering if I've tended to blow all this coincidence stuff out of proportion.

To make conversation, I asked the banal question "Having a good summer?"

"No!" he declared matter-of-factly, and went on to tell me about the recent death of a close friend, a man with whom he'd shared a house for twenty years. It was Ben Kerr, the man who had made both a name and a living for himself by standing at the corner of Yonge and Bloor singing original songs for passers-by for as long as anyone could remember.

In spite of myself, I found myself drawn in to his story, getting that strange and irritating feeling once again that the universe was trying to tell me something.

An unconventional man by any standard, Ben Kerr had made (it was reported) at least a few stabs at the commercial music world at one time but had chosen the physically and psychically demanding life of a busker as a way to share his musical gifts. Over the course of many years, and highly visible in every season, he'd gained a reputation and earned a sort of respect--though of course most people probably just assumed he was crazy. I hadn't known him; in fact my main memory of him came from the time in my life when I would have rushed past him at Yonge and Bloor on the way to some important meeting.

Meanwhile, on the streetcar, my friend described Ben as a remarkably inspiring and strong person, a source of optimistic perspective in a crazy world. My friend was missing him terribly, and yet still felt inspired by and connected to him, and inspired and connected enough to me to tell me all this.

Today, he said, he was excited to be reading a book he'd found among Ben's things. It was called "Lies My Ego Taught Me".

Yellow Stickers

Tonight we travelled across town by subway as a family.

As we strode through Pape Station on our way to the trains, our daughter (who is 8) asked me where exactly I sing in the subway. I pointed out the yellow dots.

"You should just carry yellow stickers with you, Mom," she said, "and stick them down anywhere you want to play."

Good point, I thought.

If only it were so easy.

She didn't say what she thought of the actual yellow-dot location, which was beside a garbage can and stained with what looked like dried-up spilled soft drink. Nobody was playing there. At night, I never expect any busker to be singing in the subway, perhaps because I wouldn't feel comfortable playing there myself at that time of day.

At night, when all fears and insecurities are heightened, artists like me need flattering stage lighting. We need tea-light candles on smart bistro tables, the expectant hum of people listening. We need applause.

Tonight, like all the other travellers, our family hurried through Pape subway station on our way to where we were going. Over the course of the night we stopped at several stations, each of them dreary and without music.

I noticed how stark the lighting in the subway was...how sharp the angles seemed to be.

How silent it was.

It was a silence I'd heard at all times of day, at every station, after one song ends and before the next one begins. The silence is both a reason to sing and a reason not to. It calls me to fill the void with whatever beautiful sound I can create. But it also tells me, go home! Go to a place where someone will cheer.

I have taken the lack of applause as a given, accepted it as I would the lack of applause after a soloist's performance in church.

But like all other performers, I have sought applause since I was a tiny child.

When a song is met with silence, I look for something else to fill it. The loving affirmation felt at church, for instance, is so similar to a grateful smile of appreciation or the generous toss of a coin.

For a street performer, making music that most people consider unnecessary, the affirmation is intermittent, coming and going like a wavering signal.

When a busker finishes her set, the man at the nearby concession stand says "Did you do well today?" instead of "Great show!"

It's not a show, really. There's been no agreement. When the interchange has not been entered into by choice, but by chance, it's as if the interchange hasn't happened. People may hear the music, but most pretend they have not.

There's no escaping the silence.

So, if I were to carry around my personal set of yellow dots, where would I put them?

The Corner Office

Today at Queen's Park, I had a strong urge to simply run.

It was as if a voice was saying: Get out! Get out now! Just don't do this!

Stop feeling unnecessary and out-of-place? Is that it? Quit feeling peculiar, singing in my own little corner?

How is that possible for any artist, who is creating something new and uncalled-for, and who inevitably will feel out-of-step with people on their way to the office, on more conservative and traditionally rewarding paths?

That's really the most difficult thing about busking...the undeniable fact (no matter how many donations or smiles one receives) that the music wasn’t officially called for and everybody knows it. The young man walking by carrying a guitar knows it. The TTC employee sweeping the floor knows it. The work wasn’t ordered on Amazon or iTunes. It doesn’t come in a box. And as such, it’s likely to be overlooked and undervalued. By everyone! Not just the people passing by, but by the artist herself.

(I read recently that next year, as part of official Toronto Culture Year celebrations, transit riders will be treated to on-train performances by musicians and writers. I assume these will be industry-recognized writers and musicians, which many people would consider the "real" kind. Just watch: people on the trains will applaud for those and walk right by the busker in the corridor as before.)

This afternoon, I sang and played well, technically speaking. But after a particularly long period without acknowledgement, I found myself not meeting people’s eyes. By not doing so, I retreated into my corner…created a little protective barrier against the uncomfortable realization that at that particular moment I was performing mostly for myself.

I arrived with the best of intentions. I meant to give without reservation, and yet once again I learned there were strings attached. As quickly as I’d untie them (breathe…sing out of generosity…tune in to the music itself…don't think so much don't think so much don't think so much) they would fasten themselves again: the taut strings of my need for approval and affirmation, my desire to make something that has actual commercial value, the tension between my unfulfilled wish for commercial success and the voice deep within that said “sing!” Sing even though no one is listening. Sing anyway. Sing still.

Sing to still the ever-rushing train of anxious thoughts, of wants and fears, that leads me onward but returns to its starting-point, over and over again, in the course of every day.

Tips

(Queen's Park station - 3:30 to 4:45 p.m. - $18.71, which is three dollars less than I paid the babysitter)

So, I'm playing for tips. Here are a few I've earned:

Don't take anything personally.

Smile.

Make eye contact. (And gently look away.)

Always stay a little longer after you feel like quitting.

Quit on a high note.

Pause to re-tune.

Stand tall.

Sing from your heart.

Don't think so much.

Play all the songs you know.

Play the songs you don't think you know very well. (Those will bring unexpected rewards.)

Be content without being noticed.

Be noticed being content.

The Great Uncool

In my last post, I referred obliquely to a chance meeting I had with a woman who let me know that my music had made a difference in her life. She didn't tell me that right away...and I'm not telling you the whole story here either.

We seem to be bounded by unspoken rules of decorum, some of which are actually about privacy and courtesy and others which are a reflection of our fear of connection and vulnerability. If I told you how much her comments meant to me, would I be betraying some kind of confidence unless I notified her that I was writing about them? If I did notify her, would she think I was placing undue emphasis on our conversation and think less of me? Would I look silly? Uncool in some way?

Maybe I can write about it in a blog and not have anybody really notice.

What are we afraid of?

Several times recently, I've been made aware of conversations that might have happened, but didn't. I'll hear, for instance, that someone I knew saw me in the subway but didn't say hello...or I'll think of picking up the phone and calling someone, but I hesitate and then don't.

A few days ago, there was a story in the Globe & Mail about Toronto subway passengers not pressing the yellow emergency strip when a car suddenly filled up with mysterious white vapour (which turned out to be something benign related to air conditioning) just days after the London subway bombings.

Nobody wanted to be the first to say something...so nobody said anything at all.

They didn't want to to look uncool.

Meanwhile, the car filled up with refrigerant.

The newspaper columnist wrote about it afterward, from the remove of his desk, admitting that he didn't do anything either until later when he left the train and spoke to the TTC operator who said, "Um, you should have pressed the yellow strip."

Personal boundaries are necessary and useful of course. And it's physically impossible--not to mention inconvenient and probably boring--to give voice to everything that enters your mind (which is exactly what many other bloggers seem to be doing) or to try to connect meaningfully with everyone you've ever met.

But once in awhile, you have to press the proverbial yellow strip, to say: "Hey! I see you!" or "You touched me!" or "I'm afraid!" or "That's beautiful!" or "What do we do now?"

Perhaps the trend toward blogging and podcasting and rampant self-expression in all forms is a response to our increasing inability to connect personally and meaningfully with just a few people, on a few important subjects, for the relatively few moments we physically inhabit the planet.

Fanfare

The relentless wind at Pape Station turns out to be a blessing on hot summer days.

The grandfatherly East Indian man at the Gateway concession booth took a few breaks to leave his post and stand in the corridor to take advantage of the breeze. Fortunately, the busking area is positioned directly in the path of the wind, as if I have my own personal fan.

Fan! Ha!

The wind at Pape Station, which I've written about many times before, comes and goes at random and unpredictable times. Sometimes it just about knocks me over with its force. Then I might not notice it again for more than an hour.

Other fans also make themselves known when I least expect them. I might not even know I have a "fan"--someone who has been listening and appreciating what I do, until they let me know. When this happens (as it did today on street level, many blocks away from the subway) I feel overwhelmed with gratitude, as I feel when a cool breeze hits me on the hottest summer day.

(1:25 - 3:00 p.m., $28.32)

Still on Track

Yikes, has it actually been since last Friday since I last posted?

Sorry.

I guess that sort of amplifies what I've been writing about. When school's out, I lose track of time.

So, tomorrow, the thirteen-year-old babysitter is coming for two hours.

You know, dear Blogience, that it's just enough--barely--to pop up to Pape Station.

In related news, I e-mailed the Marketing Department of the TTC twice last week to ensure that my application to re-audition had been received. (I guess this dispels any notion that I might not want to return to the subway.)

Yes, the application arrived and is being processed.

More to come of course...but I wanted you to know I'm still here.

Tunnel of Love

(I've always thought that was an excellent song title, written by Bruce Springsteen who performed a solo acoustic show in Toronto last night.)

+++

One of these mornings

You're gonna rise up singing

Spread your wings

Take to the sky

But until then, nobody can harm you

With mommy and daddy by your side

Summertime, and the livin' is easy.

These are open-ended days for my children and me, mostly unscheduled, with day-camps and errands to fit in here and there. My parents have been visiting from Winnipeg and now have headed home.

It's been hot and languid for days on end, with temperatures in the mid-thirties and high smog and humidity, so we've all been feeling sleepy.

The subway...right...I'm supposed to be singing in the subway...singing "Summertime" and "I Can See Clearly Now". But I can't, very well, on days like these, but for the haze of family summer. Squinting into another unscheduled morning, I can barely see to the next hour ahead of me. What am I making everyone for dinner? Can we invite a little friend over for a sleepover? Shouldn't I be vacuuming?

It's a strange kind of tunnel vision, parenthood. Try as I do to set other priorities for myself, to follow through with a career path of some sort, I plunge back into this tunnel at regular intervals that are guided by the school year. Because my career is mostly artistic, I find it hard to justify expensive camps and childcare. Plus, the kids are good company right now, and I want to spend as much time with them as possible. Soon they will be independent, going out on their own to sing their own songs, and I won't be invited to the gig.

What's that other saying, "make hay while the sun shines?"

"Make hey!" might be more like it...as in "Hey! Look at this interesting bug!" or "Hey! Let's organize the craft cupboard."

This morning I can see that this paricular tunnel of love serves a therapeutic purpose for me, even though I sometimes also find it dark and claustrophobic. When I surface periodically and look at my career, which today seems as chaotic as my overgrown garden, I tend to panic and become self-critical. Throughout my life, I've tried to do many things well all at once, and inevitably I don't do all of them well, all the time.

Allowing myself to take a simple and loving path, perhaps walking to the library or the park with a child, is a perfectly worthwhile way to spend a morning. It's another way an artist can survive underground.

(That said, I was delighted when my neighbour mentioned that her 13 year-old has just taken a babysitting course and is eager to get some experience, perhaps for a few mornings a week. On the schedule, I notice that two weeks from now, I have Yonge & Bloor in the mornings.)

Risky Buskness

Even though Yonge station is, for me, the most personally risky busking spot--the place on the subway system where I feel most visible and vulnerable--a familiar calm came over me as I opened my guitar case.

Yes, this is the place that intimidates me the most. But once I'm here, I feel oddly protected. I now know that I can stand exposed in such a place--I can sing my own songs and draw strength from myself instead of from a formal audience--and as a result, I feel calm and centred even before I sing a note or hear the first quarter drop into my case.

To my left, I saw that this station's Gateway Newstand is now being renovated. From time to time, high-pitched blasts from a circular saw interrupted the quiet Sunday morning mood. Briefly, I considered changing locations, but then I thought, what's the harm in staying?

See what I mean? Pretty much everything's okay, as long as I'm in between the yellow dots.

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As usual, I played to everybody and nobody. Everybody was listening...and nobody was.

When individual people stopped (a woman with her baby, an American tourist emptying out his pockets) I discovered each time, as if for the first time, that it's the individual connections that count. (The man with Down Syndrome who sang along with "The Rose".)

Simply being heard by hundreds of people means less than being truly listened to by one person.

The other day, I met a woman on our street. She said, "I've heard you sing somewhere" but she couldn't place where. I mentioned a few recent formal performances (knowing they wouldn't be right) and finally said "...Or, um, you might have seen me on the subway."

Ahah! That was it!

I thought about "exposure": that thing we performers are always supposedly looking for. The chance to be seen and heard by hundreds or thousands of people.

I realized that the subway provides that exposure, while exposing its emptiness.

The personal exposure though--the risk that leads to genuine connection--is the real gift of the experience, and it's worth a million loonies.

(Yonge Station - 10:15 to 11:50 - $23.57)

Directions

John suggested I go to Yonge & Bloor.

He had arrived at Pape Station first, this Sunday morning. I remembered that he'd told me, months ago, that he liked to catch the churchgoing crowd.

Yonge & Bloor...

Just a couple of days ago, I'd been talking to someone who said "All the people who play Yonge & Bloor are really good. Is there some kind of a pecking order?"

I'd responded that there wasn't an official one...but that I felt you needed a certain confidence in order to play that particularly busy station. (Confidence which, I didn't add, I sometimes lacked.)

But this morning I took John's suggestion, and headed down the stairs toward the westbound train.

Connections

On Friday afternoon, I found myself on the subway after all, not as a player but as a passenger.

Coming through Pape Station, I met a musician I'd never seen on the system before: a well-dressed man about my age with a guitar. I made a donation, we introduced ourselves and confirmed that we're each planning to re-audition.

As my daughter and I continued on to visit friends across town, I kept thinking, "where have I heard his name before?"

Later, over a cup of tea as our daughters played, my friend told me a story about a musician she knew who'd lent her a guitar for a period of time but had recently needed it back.

The same man.

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Later, I e-mailed him this story, and he responded that when he went home from Pape Station the next day, he ran into two people he rarely saw.

My friend and her daughter.

Open Channels

We are all connected, through underground tunnels and overhead wires, through satellite signals and radio waves. We know about these physical connections, even understand some of the science, and yet many of us also believe in the less-measurable and more mystical connections between people.

All world religions emphasize prayer and meditation in some form, not only to connect individuals with the God of their belief, but also to nurture human relationships and to heal disease. A good friend of mine is a practitioner of therapeutic touch, the beneficial manipulation of energy fields in the body. We all have intuitive and serendipitous experiences that seem to be guided by invisible threads, linking us to others.

We know about all these things, or say we do. And we resist them. I do, anyway.

Yesterday, following the London subway bombings early in the morning, I found myself shutting the news out. I distanced myself from it, checking in with CNN along with the rest of the world, but not allowing myself to truly pause and reflect on it. I unconsciously minimized the fact that the attacks had taken place on a subway—a place that has deep personal resonance for me and therefore might have served as a powerful connection to the event.

On the surface of things, I was keeping in touch with what had happened. And yet I had almost instantly and completely unconsciously disassociated myself from the event. I had cut the wires, blocked the channels.

Coincidentally, the mundane aspects of my Thursday were not going well. Again and again, I had frustrating conversations with people, who, like me, seemed tense and unreceptive. I had the feeling of not being able to "get through" to them, as if our signals were unaccountably scrambled. Nor could I get through to myself either. I found it especially hard yesterday to stay connected to the generous and sane part of myself. My creative spirit, vibrant the day before, had withered. The new song I was enthusiastic about yesterday appeared flat and ridiculous.

It wasn’t until the end of the evening, when I brought myself to write a brief entry in my blog acknowledging the event and I calmed down by reading some Zen Buddhist writings, that I cautiously unlocked the dam, to let flow the river of connection between my subway and their subway, my spirit and their spirit—their terror and my own.

I woke up this morning wanting to sing on the subway again.

I won’t do that today--not because I’m afraid to travel by subway right now, but because my energy is occupied looking after children on summer holidays. (Yesterday I saw the situation as a burden, but today it seems a blessing.)

If I decided to sing in the subway today, I know a few people who might urge me not to. But to stay away—especially today—would be a mistake.

Music is a powerful force against fear.

Music strengthens the connections between people. It keeps the channels open.

We need those open channels, now more than ever.

On Pause

Today I wasn't singing in the subway. But like everyone else, I was thinking about trains and tunnels.

The London subway bombings hit close to home.

(There are 289 licensed musicians on the London Underground. On July 1st, they held a "Busk8" concert in support of Live8 and to celebrate two years of official status on the LU.)

To Union, Via Dundas

After the Canada Day event in the park, we went to watch the fireworks. As the sun was going down, I ran into another subway musician who told me he'd had one of his best busking days ever today at Union Station.

His success had less to do with the national holiday than with the International Convention, the gathering of Alcoholics Anonymous members (and Al-Anon and Alateen family group members) from around the world. Conference events were taking place at the Convention Centre as well as in several downtown hotels, so many of the 40,000 delegates in attendance were streaming through Union Station.

On Saturday morning, that's where I was headed.

It wasn't because of the money, though.

Several people close to me were attending the convention this weekend, and to be honest, I felt a little bit left out. Even though I wasn't wearing a lanyard with the "I Am Responsible" slogan, I wanted to connect with the people who were. As always, the best way I could imagine doing that was by singing.

I arrived at Union Station just after 10:00 a.m. An accordion player and violinist were playing an unceasing medley of "O Canada" followed by "Pachelbel's Canon". I was getting bored just standing there for five minutes waiting to ask when they were planning to take a break, and I wondered how long they could keep this up.

(Later, a friend who'd walked through the station at around 4:30 p.m. looking for me said, "yeah, there was this accordion player there, playing "O Canada" followed by "Pachelbel's Canon" over and over.")

When I finally interrupted them (why not?) the accordion player allowed that I could come back at about 2:30 p.m. I thanked him and tried to figure out what to do next.

I couldn't really hang around waiting for four hours. I could probably find some A.A. members to sing for, somewhere else

So I headed up to Dundas Station, where an unlicensed busker told me he'd spent the last ten years hitch-hiking across Canada, working sporadically and playing music in bars. He's planning to try out for the TTC this year. (And he's pretty good too, singing songs by Neil Young and The Band with a certain authentic weariness.)

I bought coffees for both of us at the nearby Second Cup, wished him well, and started playing.

Dundas Station on a Saturday is usually well-travelled (today I ran into my son's friend and his Dad as they shopped for a last-minute birthday present) but today the busking corridor between the northbound and southbound trains was busier than usual. Many conference delegates were staying at hotels nearby, and were either hopping on the train to get down to Union Station or taking a break to go shopping at the Eaton Center.

It wasn't long before I noticed a pattern.

Pedestrians wearing conference ID badges were much more likely to donate--or at least to give me a big smile. Pretty soon I started eyeing the escalator to my left, waiting for the distinctive lanyards to descend. If the people wearing them did stop to donate something, sometimes I mentioned that I was a friend of the Program (often forfeiting a lyric or two to do so). One man kindly stopped for a longer time and we had a more personal conversation, which meant a lot to me.

Although some non-lanyard-wearing people did make donations on this particular Saturday, most did not. On the other hand, virtually all of the conference delegates were clearly in a positive and generous mood, the kind that makes giving (and receiving) easy.

Later, I wondered what in particular about A.A. and its related programs might influence its members to make a donation to a subway musician.

Several things occurred to me (other than the fact that they were on holiday). First, it struck me that A.A. members have an ear for honesty and an appreciation of personal courage and of generosity. Second, I realized that each of their donations was, in some way, an expression of gratitude: gratitude for simply being alive and able to appreciate a song on this particular Saturday.

Finally, I believe there is a form of recognition, among people who share particular stories. It's hard to put your finger on, but there's a sense of connection which I believe is facilitated by the human voice and by human songs.

Songs are, so often, about struggle and about frailty, and--hopefully--also about rebirth.

Performances themselves can convey the essence of those struggles, even if the lyrics remain symbolic or are not autobiographical. As a group, recovering alcoholics and their families are likely to be particularly attuned to the value of songs and stories, and to the importance of honesty and self-disclosure.

Today I remembered one of the first people to buy my CD on the subway, back in the winter. When I suggested that we trade business cards, he graciously gave me his, which bore only his first name, the A.A. insignia and hs phone number.

I still have it.

This Land

On Canada Day, I served as emcee and entertainer at a nearby community festival. The "Neighbours Together" festival took place near Toronto's East Chinatown, where we live. It was mostly a Chinese event, but a few non-Chinese performers had been invited as well, including me and, as it turned out, Elvis. (Full name, "George Elvis".)

I offered to sing "O Canada" live, but a tape was already cued up for that purpose. If I was going to sing anything to specifically honour my country, I'd have to do it in my set. I thought about my original repertoire. A few of the songs have specifically Canadian references, but "Yes It's Cold In Winnipeg" didn't seem to suit the 32 degree heat.

I settled on "This Land is Your Land", the Canadian version ("from Bonavista to Vancouver Island") and was pleased that many people in the audience seemed to know it, no matter what their country of origin.

As I introduced the song, I said that the song was written in the United States by a songwriter named Woody Guthrie, but that a second set of lyrics had been written for Canadian audiences. Later, my husband told me he heard a teenage boy mutter to his friend: "Listen to her, singing an American song on Canada Day". Apparently they shut up when they heard the Canadian place names, but it was an interesting point.

It hadn't even occurred to me not to sing the song because it had been written in another country. It occurred to me to sing the song because it's a beautiful song everybody knows, one which underlines the importance of taking care of the land itself and which emphasizes the idea of community.

I was glad I could sing such a song.

Reasons to Smile

A few years ago, I realized that the ratio of good gigs to disappointing ones is probably something like one in four.

By "good", though, I meant that it went as well as I wanted. Admittedly, my expectations for lots of gigs has been very high.

Instead of insisting that a "good" gig be a peak life experience, one that confirms the rightness of the path I've chosen and leaves me feeling at the top of my game, perhaps I should re-define it. After all, there are all kinds of useful and worthwhile experiences to be had in the arts and in work in general. I've heard of "good enough" parenting, the "good enough" marriage....how about the "good enough" gig?

"Good enough" would mean I feel generally satisfied about it: feel that I've done my best, done justice to the material and served the audience well...and that the audience was happy about it too. That is, there was an audience, and they got what they paid for, and they paid something reasonable, and everybody went away happy.

As I've performed publicly over the past ten years, I've noticed that I've tried to provide as much allowance as possible for the gigs that are more challenging: gigs like the subway. I've become accustomed to looking for the silver lining instead of focusing on what went "wrong". Here are some of the possible "upsides" of a difficult gig:

- I didn't get sunburned,
- That man in the front row was smiling,
- I kept my guitar in tune,
- I didn't feel nervous or embarrassed,
- I got paid,
- It's good practice.

In so many performance situations--really the majority of them--the unexpected is the norm. The best performers, whom I admire and try to emulate, are the ones who respond gently and positively to the changing winds of the situation.

Someone said to me that I should avoid performance settings that are difficult to control. Other performers insist on detailed contracts well in advance of the show, and if they don't receive them, they don't do the gig.

In an effort to be generous and responsive, I have often let these things go. Every time, I've regretted it.

I've found good things about the shows for sure--I've played my song "In Spite of It All" (I still find reasons to smile) with good cheer--and yet I've often come home feeling that I've lost something.

I haven't figured out whether it's more satisfying to play for myself in my living room (which I did before I started performing publicly) or to continue playing these dues (ahah...that was a Freudian slip, but I'm keeping it in).

Perhaps there's no way to completely control a performing career, or any career at all. (I wonder if the really big names have the same sorts of challenges, but in bigger stadiums.)

As I'm aiming high, it's essential that I see the beauty in the stones as well as the stars, because I'm likely to come face to face with them more often than I'd like.

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Speaking of stars...

The big musical event this weekend of course the Live8 Concert in Barrie. I believe that Adam Solomon, the marvellous guitar player I've mentioned who's also a TTC busker, is playing the concert as part of the African Guitar Summit.

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This weekend, an international conference is taking place in Toronto, whose delegates are wearing name tags and lanyards embossed with the slogan "I am responsible".

This is a good reminder for me. I am responsible for making every performance worthwhile for both myself and the audience. It's my responsibility to resist self-pity when any situation requires me to stretch beyond my comfort zone.

And I am responsible for making my career work.