Toronto Days

 

We all have our own strategies to slow Time’s swift foot, to blunt the lion’s claw of mortality. Mine is to lead multiple existences, each one a miniature life in itself that creates its own micro-rhythms and goes through the cycle of freshness and repetition that doesn’t continue long enough to get stale. Now at the end of my second of three weeks in Toronto, enmeshed in the daily rhythms that bring a groove to the day and help me feel aligned with my purpose and meaning. 

 

The day begins early, as the 6:00 am light filters into the guest room where I stay. Foregoing my morning meditation, I gather my things, enjoy a solitary Alpen breakfast with my hosts still sleeping and I’m out the door around 7:30 am, something unheard of in my San Francisco retired life.  Early morning air is both brisk and many days sprinkling or raining, more gray skies than sun. 

 

A short walk up to Yonge Street on Clarke, tap my Presto card in a machine at the bus stop and usually, a blue bus arrives within a minute or two. Off we go on Yonge Street, one of the longest (if not the longest) street in the whole world, with its chains of strip-smallish stores with signs in Arabic, Korean, Farsi and more. (Toronto remains one of the world's most international cities.) 

10 minutes to Finch Subway Station, where multiple blue buses gather on one side and red buses on the other. Out the door, past the man outside the station sleeping in his sleeping bag, head for the stairs with the throng at a rapid pace and wondering what everyone’s hurry is. Past the musician in his poncho playing panpipes or quena flute with his pre-recorded back-up band (never saw anyone give him money), past the folks lined up for morning coffee at Tim Hortons (yes, I’m in Canada), through the turnstile with another swipe of my Presto card and down the stairs where a train is always waiting to go. 

Six stops to Lawrence Ave., all predictably on their phones, no animated (or any) conversations, up to the street and the first week, took the 20 minutes walk down busy Lawrence Avenue before arriving at the school.

 

But the other day, discovered a parallel street one block to the South that is quiet and pleasing with its brick houses and front lawns, the kind of American aesthetic of mid-size houses, not two alike and the “Leave It to Beaver” mythology of families living their dreams in comfort with friendly neighbors, flowering daffodils and tulips in the yard, magnolia trees blooming, folks out walking their dogs. As I approach the school, there’s a path with trees leafing themselves into Spring and a softball field to my left, where early morning enthusiasts are out and about playing a game. The realist in me knows that houses were always peopled—and still are— with the full human drama of spousal abuse, child neglect, gay people in the closets and black people kept out of the neighborhood. But the dreamer still enjoys walking these comfortable streets and imagining people living fulfilling lives, showing up at PTA meetings, lending yard tools to each other, hosting back yard barbecues and such and some of that is as true as the others. And these days, there are people of all colors and persuasions living in some of these neighborhoods. 

 

On to the school, hello to the person who checks me in, spirited greetings to the many students I pass whose names I don’t know but am starting to recognize their faces. And off for yet another day of delight, making music, playing games, dancing, watching all those who begin “I can’t” slowly realize “I can!”, feel the group chaos of melodies not quite mastered yet and rhythms not quite in sync finally hit their groove before the hour is up and isn’t that satisfying! When you are engaged together in a worthy project, actually know (or learn) how to listen to each other, understand the deep benefits of group cohesion and let go of your “look at me!” nonsense— well, it gives a shape and meaning to the day which we all should be so lucky to experience. 

 

Mid-day is lunch with Kofi and a conversation that is dependably stimulating and thought-provoking and also the rare opportunity for us to work together with a couple of classes. Never a moment’s planning beyond “Who should go first?” and the organic, spontaneous sense of how to support and enhance each other’s work. And yesterday, our mutual astonishment that a 2^nd grader played to perfection a challenging Ghanaian bell rhythm, by herself, with the drums and with the song. And Kofi said today a 1^st grader did the same! We both were shaking our heads and reminding ourselves, “Never underestimate what kids can do.”

 

Around 2:30, it’s the reverse commute and as mentioned in a previous post, it feels good to have my exercise (usually 4 miles a day) folded into my work schedule. On the way in, planning and re-planning the days classes while on the move, on the way back, either reflecting on it or indulging in my Audible book. “Home” to log in the days classes, check my e-mail, re-connect with my hosts and either cook or help cook some pretty great dinners. 

 

So there it is, my new life, with a free weekend coming up where I’ll visit a few other folks I know here and grab some solitude time wandering about in a new neighborhood in the city. Then four more days and back home next Friday to begin my next new life— some 10 days back home before the next adventure beckons.

 

Amidst all this, I’m not oblivious to the constant assault of the cheaters and bullies and hypocrites— even micro-dosing on the news still penetrates the protective sheath of love, truth and beauty. But I simply can’t let them win and so keep my eye on the prize— the glitter in these students’ eyes when they discover both what they themselves can do and how good they all can sound together in a group. And so it goes on…