Last night I went busking in downtown Vancouver on Granville, a more exposed location than last week's spot.   In fact, I was set up such that, when larger crowds passed, people had to walk around me.  No trying to be not noticed this time.  Also, contrary to last week's location, this block of Granville had far less traffic noise, although I still could have used an amplifier. 

Along with facing my what-will-they-think-of-me fears, busking is helping me to face that part of myself that looks down on others.   Even with all my Nonviolent Communication training and practice, I'd be fooling myself if I thought I was free of better-than thinking.  Thousands of years of judgemental thinking--judgements about who is right or wrong, who is good or bad, who deserves to be punished and shunned and who deserves to be rewarded and lauded-goes deep into the unconscious.  Of course I am not responsible for thousands of years of judgemental thinking, but I am responsible for my part in either perpetuating it or seeing through it and creating a new consciousness.

So I sit on my stool and play my songs below the fluid collage of pedestrians.  Many are dressed to impress and looking for a good time, some look like they are out to prove that they don't care what anyone thinks, and some are just trying to survive. 

Three young men choose the bench twelve feet in front of me to chug their cans of beer.  That was me at that age.  Within minutes a man comes along and shakes each can to see if there is any beer left.  No luck.  He leaves and minutes later another man is there to collect the cans.  Without a hint of expression and with stolid efficiency, he puts the cans in his garbage bag of recyclable cans and bottles and continues on.  Recently, I heard that a huge percentage of the world's recycling is done by those below the poverty line.  What thankless gift to us all. 

My focus turns inward as I begin to play one of my favourite songs.   Soon the delicious energy of music vibrates through me and saturates my cells.  The mind relaxes; melody and rhythm take the helm.   My eyes half-close and I am less aware of the blur of bodies jumbling past, talking and laughing.  Then I hear a loud voice close to me say, "Hold on, I've got to get rid of this."  I look up to find a man standing in front of me holding an array of coins in his cupped hands urging me to take them.  My sack for coins is clearly laid out in front of me, and I am in the middle of a song, but he seems adamant that I use my hands to take the money from him.  So I do.  I take the money in my sack and continue playing.  Moments later I hear the man call out, "Hey!"  I look over and he yells to me, "Here, take these too," as he throws two coins to me from about 15 meters away.  "Get yourself something to eat," he hollers before moving on.  He seems almost frustrated.  I can't help but laugh.  Maybe Mom is right; maybe I am too skinny. 

It's hard to tell why this fellow is upset.  Perhaps he sees "people like me" as a drain on society, or perhaps he is giving out of guilt, perhaps he feels powerless about how to help or make difference, maybe his girlfriend left him, or maybe he is just having a bad day.  Whatever it is, his admonishing tone towards me as a busker is what I'm here to receive, along with other people's deprecating looks or complete lack of acknowledgment of my existence.  It's all helping me to connect more to those people on the fringes of society.  And it's helping me to let go of that part of myself that thinks it needs to be better than others in order to be worthy.

I slip back into my music and get lost in it for a while.  When I open my eyes again, I find a young man with a mischievous look stopped in front of me.  A little further away his friend watches.  I wonder if the young man is about to try and take my sack of coins as a gag to impress his buddy.  I'm not out here for the money, not yet anyway, so he's welcome to it.  However, when he sees my eyes are open, he smiles and moves on.

My keenest audience is young children.  The younger they are, the more closely they observe.  I love their unabashed curiosity and rapt attention.  They stare wide-eyed as their parents pull them along, and I am delighted to play for them.  However, young children are few and far between on a Friday night in downtown Vancouver.  After a while, it is challenging to keep my passion alive amidst the waves of indifference and cacophony of Friday night revellers.  I have a whole new appreciation for the heightened nervousness I feel when playing for people who are quiet and paying attention.  It may be a lot scarier but it's a lot more exciting too.  Perhaps it's time to move on from the busking and to find an open-mic to play at, or perhaps it's time for my visit to the Downtown Eastside.

I remember an article I read not long ago, an article that helps put my busking experiences into perspective.  The Washington post did an experiment on recognition of beauty.  They had Joshua Bell, one of the world's finest violinists, busk at a Washington subway station to find out if ordinary people would recognize beauty in a place they wouldn't expect to find it.  Gene Weingarten of the Washington Post wrote a fascinating and Pulitzer Prize winning article, Pearls Before Breakfast, about the experiment.  I've copied an excerpt below and a link to the full article, which includes a video clip of Joshua busking.  There are shorter versions of the article, but I very much recommend the full piece.  (Special note: Joshua Bell was nervous about busking too!)

Excerpt from Pearls Before Breakfast by Gene Weingarten.

"The poet Billy Collins once laughingly observed that all babies are born with a knowledge of poetry, because the lub-dub of the mother's heart is in iambic meter. Then, Collins said, life slowly starts to choke the poetry out of us. It may be true with music, too.

There was no ethnic or demographic pattern to distinguish the people who stayed to watch Bell, or the ones who gave money, from that vast majority who hurried on past, unheeding. Whites, blacks and Asians, young and old, men and women, were represented in all three groups. But the behaviour of one demographic remained absolutely consistent. Every single time a child walked past, he or she tried to stop and watch. And every single time, a parent scooted the kid away."

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/04/04/AR2007040401721.html

It's no suprise that Johsua Bell fared better than I did, although not nearly as much as one might expect.  From Joshua's experience, I think I can safely assume that an amplifier would not significantly add to my busking fortunes.

Here are the words to one of my songs I belted out on both Granville and Robson.  It's from my upcoming (upcoming meaning before I die) NVC album.

Glorious Truth

Heart Warrior
No weapons, no armour
I will venture out and meet you
On Rumi's field
With roses and glorious truth
With roses

We will dance through illusions
Unencumbered
Fear and desire step aside
We're diving in
With love and glorious truth
With love

Heart Warrior
Aching and longing for
Truth
Meet me on Rumi's field

Eric

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