Another conversion

I received my hearing and my sight back again. My healer is a wise man who recently told me that if I “took those damned things out of my ears” I would hear the best soundtrack the world has to offer.

Since an early morning blood lab experience at St. Mike’s last month, my iPod has been laid to rest on my desk. And maybe it’ll be for good.

“Hello there dear, what’s wrong with you?” asked a tall, disheveled woman with a Russian accent as she ambled over to me (strangely confident that I would answer).

The one thing I really miss since moving to Toronto nearly two years ago from rural Nova Scotia are nosy (and unapologetic) inquiries into my personal life by strangers.

Telling people what you are doing at any point in the day “down home” is to be expected. “Now what brings you to these parts?” if you are recognized as a stranger in an antique store by the beach. Or, “didn’t your Pops have a heart attack last week? How’s he faring?”

Answers (and sometimes highly personal ones) are demanded of you constantly and they often tumble out of your mouth before you even notice the stage being set for such a transfer of information.

I took out my ear buds and smiled up at her politely. “My specialist has ordered some tests for me,” I spewed out far too naturally, “she thinks I may have a recurrence of a disease from my past”.

After telling her far too much (in true Maritime form), she smiled at me with sympathy, and then stared wordlessly for an inappropriate amount of time. Then, as if coming out of a trance, she shook her head and moved onto her next victim. “And you, what’s wrong with you?” I heard her ask the elderly man on my left.

A slow smile crept onto my face as my shock synchronized with my memory and then ceased being shock. And all of this because my senses had been freed from their playlist-dictated bondage; I was letting life happen around me again and it felt like home.

After almost 2 years in this city, I had come to believe that people were content on their independent daily trajectories and that no one really wanted to mingle with anyone else.

I learned that you shouldn’t say “good morning” to the person sitting next to you on the subway and that people don’t really need to know that you like their lapel pin.

Or do they?

After that morning at St. Mike’s, I felt a rebellion rising up within me. I wanted to be an unfiltered-brand-of-human to everyone with whom I came into contact.

“But you’re a young lady,” my Portuguese landlady countered when I told her my plan, “you will get followed home. People are far too desperate in this city and if you show them any attention…”

But all I heard was: people are far too desperate. Too desperate? Why are they desperate? Perhaps because these people see themselves becoming irrelevant at a disturbing speed because they see that people aren’t present when they are present. Maybe these “inappropriate” individuals as we deign to call them are longing for reality, grasping for some humanity, mourning normalcy. I can understand that.

We’ve all prayed that the rancid-smelling old lady who plopped down beside us on the bus won’t turn to us with her disconnected ramblings. Maybe we move to another seat before she even gets the chance. Maybe we plug into iWorld where the rancid old lady population is negligible.

I am realizing that strangers (even rambling ones) aren’t as scary as we’ve pegged them to be. Accept their candy, no, but their anecdotes? Their musings? Chances are their words aren’t poisoned.

“Engage. Take in your surroundings. People have things to say to you and you need to hear them.” This wise man’s words had found a permanent home in my heart.

So for me, this city has changed. It’s now been over a month without my iPod, its neon green body lifeless on my desk like a withered leaf from last season.

When I was still new to Toronto, I would constantly grieve the beauty of the Maritime landscape that I had left behind, but I’ve since realized that Toronto boasts of a landscape of souls. There are unwritten memoirs on every corner, a startling, uncomfortable yet highly-welcome brand of beauty. Decidedly, this substitute might just be enough for me.