Mid July. Another overcast, breezy day in Toronto perched on the verge of rain. I needed to get out of my house. Feeling restless. Maybe it’s the day. The news. Maybe it’s the melancholy that seems to follow me like a persistent shadow in the past few days.
My daughter, sensing my mood suggested that we get out of the house, and go downtown, hang out in a coffee shop and write. Good plan. I am sitting in Kensington Market writing this blog post. I wanted to photograph the crinolines on Kensington Street that hang on lines across stores that are throw backs to a time when I would come down and hang out with my friends and buy peace pins, beads and bell bottom jeans. I have a thing for crinolines. I like their whimsy. When I said ‘crinolines’ she replied with ‘peace pins’. Perfect. She gets me.
Some things do remain the same. I guess I’m still the same girl at heart. Peace and love. The shops are still the same. Their wares haven’t changed. Even people-watching is pretty similar. Aged hippies. Young people wearing the woven sacks over their shoulders, that used to carry pen and note book, and now cart I-pads and MacBooks. Girls with nose piercings, high-waisted shorts, crop tops. Now with I-phones, taking ‘selfies’ with peace fingers. Well then… And in the background the painted brick row houses, faded green and, brown and burgundy shingled roofs, bamboo blinds. This is not a street that has been replaced. The seeds of the sixties have strong roots here, and the passersby seem to adapt their stride.
Perhaps I needed to retreat to a less complicated world for a moment. A time when we believed that our voices served as a mantra for peace. The world is a mess. The sadness has settled in my bones.
This little excursion has restored my equilibrium for the moment. A little Moroccan Mint tea, a slice of Halava from the Cheese shop, and a weathered bench at an outdoor café. Breaking away from the tangent of unrest that is swirling within.
Across the street a silk halter dress, pink, with flecks of made in India gold is blowing in the wind. I hear tambourine, guitar, and wind chimes wafting across the air. Some voices that are too loud, “nice, nice, yeah, yeah” merging on top of each other. Snippets of irrelevant conversation like a reprise. I can almost smell incense. The sun in breaking through the clouds. Crinolines and peace pins.
