The Sound of Silence

Last Tuesday, at Bay Station, the busking wasn't going well.

I was feeling marginalized and under-appreciated. I was wondering why I wanted to do this in the first place and questioning the quality of my music. I know to expect those insecurities now. They're part of busking territory and a craggy feature of many artists' daily landscape.

I know that's just part of the deal. And I figure it's up to me to deal with it.

So, until now, when I've felt this kind of insecurity while busking, I've squared my shoulders and tried harder.

I've responded by singing louder and more clearly, by paying attention to my fingerpicking, adjusting my posture, fiddling with my amp, picking another "better" song.

I've tried to tune in more fully to the people around me: to be as emotionally and spiritually connected as possible to the song, the corridor, the people, the guitar, the universe.

But on this particular day, I was inspired to do nothing.

I found myself taking breaks of about a minute long and simply standing still.

At those times, I listened to the sound of the corridor without my singing. It wasn't exactly silent, but it was definitely quiet. I heard shoes clicking on the tile floor, soft-soled shoes shuffling along. Occasionally there'd be the sound of a stroller. Mostly though, there was a quietness. A gentle absence of music.

I noticed it. And I noticed other people not noticing it.

The sudden absence of music didn't register any more than its unexpected presence.

But the quiet acceptance became part of my song.