I arrived at the outdoor plaza in a cold drizzle, 20 minutes ahead of time and clutching my takeout dinner. The sisters' violin instructor was leading the small group of children in playing along the side of the plaza before the makeshift stage was set up.
Then they moved under the tent:
A small crowd assembled:
About 25 of them were a group of developmentally disabled adults and their caretakers. About 10 were family members of the children or associates of the Young Native Fiddlers group. And another 5 or so were derelicts that the music had drawn through the haze of their drunkenness. Their demons quieted for a few moments, and they stopped to listen. One family member danced with her grandson.
The instructor is none other than Bill Stevens, called "the most recognized Athabascan fiddler in North America today". But he was not so, in that drizzly, mostly-empty plaza. After a few songs, the rain began to fall in earnest, and the disabled adults were led away by their caretakers. Then all that were left were the families, the drifters, and me. The rain had chased the tourists and normal downtown pedestrians indoors. The only passersby were people rushing to and from their cars, as they held plastic bags and other makeshift protection over their heads.
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
-- Leisure, W.H. Davies
More dramatic and better-written version of this story here.
1 comment:
That was a l...o...n...g story, but interesting to see they do that kind of experiment.
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