Band on the Run: Dames of Dalkeith

by Ember Swift on

It was 6:45 a.m. and I had no idea why my dreams had been rudely interrupted. My eyes were open but not seeing anything; everything just felt foggy. The alarm clock, expertly placed out of reach, was ringing from across the room. It took me and my exhausted body a few moments to realize that this was the day of the “girls-crash-the-small-town-breakfast” party at the local general store.

Ah-hah. Dalkeith to be redefined. Get up, stand up.

Even if I go to bed early and sleep a full night’s sleep, I still find mornings tough. I consider early morning to be around nine o’clock. Maybe eight thirty if I’m well rested, but anything before seven seems completely counter-rhythm to my overall late-night musician’s life. As I rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom to splash water on my pillow-creased face, I was sure that I was crazy to have suggested this.

Seven a.m.? What was I thinking?

My neighbours, Diane and her daughter Amanda, arrived at seven to pick us up and we were ready, nearly. I threw on a cap and laced up my shoes and apologized for my inability to speak. Had I been more rested, I may have been able to say the word “monosyllabic” but since I was exactly that, I couldn’t have said it if I’d tried. I was still asleep with my eyes open when we pulled up in front of the general store three kilometres later and got out of the car on that sunny summer morning.

It was walking across the road and marvelling at the thirty or so cars parked up and down this main street (there is no parking lot at the store) that I started to wake up and remember our mission. Yes, the crashing of the boys’ club: the combined forces of the transplanted ladies of Glengarry county coming into the general store in the morning to have breakfast and alter the course of Dalkeith history.

Right. I remember now.

(Okay, I’m being a bit dramatic, but the fun was in the imagining.)

I rubbed my eyes and opened them a bit wider as I stepped into the store to an already buzzing morning. One of the larger tables was actually still free at that hour and the five of us sat down and took up our positions. Jenny, the storeowner and cook, was behind the deli counter in the kitchen as usual and when she saw us come in she called a huge greeting. After claiming my chair, I went back there to say hello just as she was coming out from behind to do the same.

She was taking off her apron when she burst with, “Oh it’s so nice to see you all! I never serve women in the mornings!”

“I know,” I replied as I gestured with my head to the full corner of hungry farmers, “that’s why we’re here! We figured it was about time!” And she laughed.

She gave hugs all around and then disappeared out the front door. I wondered who was watching the sizzling skillets in the back, but she returned within a minute having just gone upstairs to where she lives. Her arms were laden with fruit as she hurried back to her steaming pans. Five minutes later, she plopped an overflowing plate of cut fruit on the table in front of us and the men in the neighbouring tables leaned over in curiosity.

“What’s this?” asked one of them in French, with laughing eyes. “Special treatment, I’d say!” said another and he smiled at me. I suppose we were being taken care of. I didn’t mind! Special treatment for the special ladies, perhaps?!

Throughout the whole fifteen minutes or so while we were waiting for our breakfasts to be cooked, several men arrived to the store for their morning ritual. They noticed that their chairs were occupied and they were visibly dishevelled. Twitching, I’d say, as though we’d upset the natural order of things. Other chairs were procured and the neighbouring tables just overflowed a little more than usual, but in the end everyone had a seat for their breakfast. It just wasn’t the same seat and I suppose that’s the point. We were here to shift the balance a little and that clearly included the seating arrangements!

Two other women and friends in the community, Myria and Louise, were there with us and Myria had brought a bottle of champagne. We popped the cork with a loud burst and passed champagne all around to mix with our orange juice. It was truly an occasion. The men eyed us with kind curiosity. The champagne was making a splash, literally, and we were definitely not quiet diners.

Suddenly, John, a horse farmer from up the road and a super nice guy, was standing over our table with a poised coffee pot raised and ready in his right hand. “Coffee, ladies?” he asked and he filled some of our empty cups. Another man who I didn’t recognize was the one who carried our plates to our table and then cleared the table when we were done. We all laughed at this amazing service, wondering if Jenny had roped them into helping or if they were just helping out naturally like they would any morning. Either way, it was fun to be served and we laughed at their over-the-top gallantry. It was especially perfect alongside of their crinkled farm clothes, muddy boots and unshaven chins.

We were there for two hours. We watched most of the farmers leave and then were still chatting with Jenny by around nine a.m. when we all realized that we needed to get on with our days. The whole experience was a great laugh, though, and the potatoes I ordered (the only thing vegan possible) were delicious and local. In fact, they were just grown less than a kilometre from the store and had been picked the previous day. Can’t beat that!

These pics are from when the breakfast hour is over, but you can tell just how diverse this little store is. The post office in one front corner, the dining area in the other, the kitchen and the rubber boots taking up the rear. The shelves hold many items but only one or two of each – never more than five – since things don’t get purchased very quickly in here. If you get the last bottle of ketchup, for instance, Jenny just orders another two and they sit there until they are bought by other ketchup-desperate locals. It makes the shelves look nearly empty but I love them this way. To me, it’s even more evidence of this store being more about the characters that run it and come into it than the products it offers. It’s a social space more than anything. Oh, and let’s not forget the pet turtle as well as two dogs underfoot. They take up their positions as the animal representatives of Dalkeith General Store.

We all waved our goodbyes from the street outside the store that morning. We piled in with our nearest neighbours for the short lift home and the others got in their cars and went in their opposite directions towards their homes.

I was fully awake at this point and maybe even a little tipsy to start the day. I was happy and my belly was happy. Getting up early has its perks when there’s local food and champagne involved!

I will officially never worry about coming into the store in the morning again. The great breach of boys’ club breakfasts has been boldly enacted. Mission accomplished.

And the fruit tray was delicious.

Next time, we’ll have to get aprons for the wait staff!

(Pictured above are Jenny, her daughter Sarah (dark hair) and Shelley, Jenny’s friend.
I can’t remember the animal’s names but I’m sure they have them…)


Special Note: Dick Swift offered this title, but I abbreviated slightly. Thanks Dick!

Band on the Run: Fleece Me with an Ambler’s Flocks

by Ember Swift on


Wakefield is a quaint little town just north of the Ottawa-Hull region, nestled in the Gatineau hills of Western Quebec. I was there this weekend to support my friend Garnet Rogers, the Canadian folk icon himself, as he recorded his three consecutive concerts at the equally iconic Black Sheep Inn. Garnet asked Lyndell Montgomery (my band mate) and I to sing back-up harmonies with him.

(Speaking of music legends, he even has personal accounts about the artist to whom this blog title is a tribute. Post a comment if you got the reference!)

It was Lyndell’s birthday this weekend (the 27th) and we couldn’t think of a better place to celebrate it: the stage beside water. Not only is Wakefield a pretty town sitting right beside the Gatineau river and full of hiking trails, kayak rentals and fresh air to breathe, but celebrating her birthday in that setting while also on stage – a stage whose back window actually overlooks the water – seemed like the perfect combination of favourite things.

We arrived to find a pile of friends all gathered around a dog. . .

The dog’s name is Apache and she’s the sweetest natured dog I have met in a long time. I learned quickly that the dog’s pets (er, parents) are a lovely couple from upstate New York named Elliot and Toni. Elliot Michael, an old friend of Garnet’s and a guitar collector and music store owner from Ithaca, was a guest on stage for several songs on electric guitar. When he casually pulled out an instrument that was worth more than my house (and I’m not exaggerating!), I perked up my ears and was treated to talent that was tinged with vintage resonance like I’ve never heard.

Just listening to the soundcheck that day, I knew that this was going to be a weekend of solid music. It was rockin’ but also full of space and rhythm that holds you up. I closed my eyes and just took in the layers that were happening simultaneously on that stage – took it in as easily as afternoon sun.

The weekend unfolded just like that, naturally and easily. We had brought out bikes and so we cycled and took in the farmer’s market (bought some preserves and veggies), went swimming at a beautifully private spot, made a big Sunday brunch and basically just chilled out. What a treat to be in a place this beautiful, let alone for three full days with no need to drive to a new venue every night. This puts “being on tour” in a new light; no complaints!

On the Sunday afternoon, I took myself for a stroll of the main street. I have played the Black Sheep many times throughout my career (in fact, we are scheduled there on September 28th), and I have never had the time to wander around this town except to find food for supper in that small window between soundcheck and show time.

Across from the venue is this fantastic pier that was built for Canada Day this year (July 1st). It’s pieced together from various pieces of reclaimed lumber and looks a bit like a pile of toothpicks ready to topple, but apparently it was filled with over sixty people on Canada Day. When I heard that, I figured its structural integrity had been tested and so I hopped on and looked around. Of course, the upper level doubles as the jumping off place and there were two young girls sitting there chatting when I came up, contemplating a late-afternoon plunge.

They’re the ones who gave me the low-down on the pier, actually, and we had a good chat about the party on Canada Day. Their eyes danced and widened when they talked about it, as though it was the best party they had ever known. I smiled. I remember those parties. I remember when there was a “party of the summer” and that party became legendary until September, and sometimes beyond. They were replaced the following summer by new parties, of course, but I had clearly asked them to talk about their current legend and it was a joy to watch them stumble over each other as they recounted the craziness of that night.

And then, like most teenagers, they suddenly got shy at how much they had said and became mute. I took my cue then and left, wishing them a good night and thanking them for filling me in on what I’d missed.

I walked then the length of the main street and back again. The rest was filled with tourist shops and cute stores with cute names. They all had painted signs and hanging plants and flowers, overflowing with colour. Even the corporate bank had its flowers. Everything was trimmed and rugged at the same time, which gave it that rustic charm that is so common in small tourist towns. And, it works. I was charmed. I have the photos to prove it.

When I got back to The Black Sheep, the room was buzzing. Garnet has a following, that’s for certain. Three full nights of you-can-hear-a-pin-drop attendance and open ears.

The Black Sheep is a renowned music venue with a long history. People flock to the place, no pun intended, and are willing to drive long distances to catch a show there. CBC, Canada’s amazing public broadcast radio station, often features live concerts from The Black Sheep and these live concerts are broadcasted across the country. Nationally and internationally touring musicians regularly play The Sheep as they’re heading through the Ottawa-Montreal area en route across Canada. To say the least, people know this place.

There must be some magic in that old stage. . . that isn’t quite level under the musicians’ feet. Maybe it’s the proximity of the river, the pull of the Gatineau hills, the reflection of life in these parts in all its working class reality that is kicked up from the dusty black-and-white tiled floor when you walk in. Maybe it’s the view of the river and trees through the windows that makes the music played in that room sound fuller, more alive, more lush.

After three days there, though, I really began to feel part of the score that plays behind its long and mysterious story. I felt even more part of it then ever before even though I have played there before many times. For instance, a woman at Garnet’s show on Sunday saw me singing with him and came up to me afterwards to tell me that she had seen me in the grocery store that weekend. Another guy came up to me and I recognized him from the farmer’s market. He was selling relishes and honey mustard and I had taste-tested his wares. He told me that he would happily swap one of my CDs for preserves if I came back to the market the next morning because he loved my voice. Another couple who Lyndell and I found out are “friends of friends” (aren’t we all connected?) invited us to come for a swim at their dock on the Sunday.

I felt welcomed into a community.

Top that welcome off with the chance to hang out with musicians who I hadn’t seen in awhile including David Woodhead on bass, David Matheson on keys and our long-time drummer (or Garnet’s, depending on the gig!) Cheryl Reid on drumkit. It was not a chore.

So, our job was to sing harmonies. Lyndell and I took up the torch as the backing vocalists and we were thrown into the ring on Friday after just a quick run-through backstage. We hadn’t heard the songs before, but we jumped in with both feet.

We didn’t have official parts for any of the songs but Lyndell and I have played together long enough that we naturally grab certain pitches and harmonies and stay out of each other’s way, vocally. Still, it was tricky. By the second night, we were actually singing parts we’d worked out during the day and by the third night, we had it down to a science (well, mostly!) Luckily, they never stopped recording. They got it all.

I have no doubt that the next Garnet Rogers record will be one that will have captured the crescendo of energy throughout the weekend – a weekend of both leisure and legacy.

Friendship and music.

With Apache as our witness.

Band on the Run: The Gatineau Choo-Choo

by Ember Swift on

I just got back from a weekend in Wakefield, Quebec. I’m at home for one day between tours and as I’m typing this, the train whistle is calling me from across the fields through my open windows. Whenever I hear it, and provided I’m not completely indisposed, I go to the window and watch the train pass. I love watching it flicker through the trees, emerge along the neighbouring fields and then disappear into the distance.

The country is beautiful out here.

Trains are also amazing pieces of machinery. In Wakefield, they have a century-old steam train – one of the few remaining working steam engines in Canada – that runs up and down the Gatineau Hills. It is a tourist attraction and I was right in there too, snapping pictures and smiling. I especially loved the sounds it makes. It really sounds just like a cartoon train with its “choo choo” and “chug-a-chug-a.” You can almost hear it whispering “I think I can, I think I can” as it gathers speed and rolls away.

Wakefield is its turning point (i.e. it actually turns around in Wakefield), which is a sight to behold.

The train gets turned around on what is called a train turntable. When the engine is pointing back the other way again, caboose taking up the rear, it chugs on back to whence it came.

The people working on the train helped to push it around, including the musicians. I couldn’t resist the punny jokes about musicians being turntablists on the side. Imagine being employed to strum your guitar on a train with the caveat that you had to be on the “train turning” crew at half time! Such a mixed list of workplace expectations! It made me smile.

My friend works at CN and talks regularly about the environmental impact of planes and automobiles versus the lighter footprint of rail travel. Trains use up to 70% less energy and cause up to 85% less air pollution when compared to a jet. They use 17 times less fuel versus a jet and 5 times less than a car per passenger kilometre. (source.) Think of how many tractor-trailers we could take off the road if we were to put more of our tax dollars into repairing rail lines and renewing efforts to promote rail transport! It boggles the mind.

I was walking alongside of this tourist train with my friend Virginia and her son, Rowan. Virginia is my drummer Cheryl’s partner and together they have this perfect three-year old whose little voice saying “choo choo” was enough to melt me into a puddle of goo right there. He was so excited about the train, (which he was correctly calling a “steam engine,”) that we had to walk its length so we could see it all as it was preparing to roll away. He kept saying “Look Mommy! It’s the conductor!” or “Look Mommy! Look at the steam!”

I followed them slowly, snapping photographs and feeling wistful. My friend’s father drove trains for a living and he passed away a few years ago now. She’s told me stories about getting to ride with him when she was a kid and I wondered if she was as excited as Rowan was right now, exclaiming the whole time to her “Papa” about what she was seeing around her. What a thrill it is for a kid to just see a train up close, let alone get to ride with the conductor! I made a mental note to ask her about those experiences the next time I see her.

When we got to the engine it was giving off shimmering rays of heat, so much so that I had to stand back a bit out of its aura. The conductor, wearing the requisite overalls, sat in his little area in the engine car equipped with a window opening large enough for him to lean out of, one summer-tanned arm dangling over the edge like the train were his personal roadster. He tipped his striped blue and a white cap for the tourists and pulled the whistle from a string above his head, just like in the cartoons, and the steam billowed upwards with a woosh. It was all so storybook-like that I just stood there gaping at the thing, captivated.

As it pulled away, we waved to all the strangers who smiled and waved back. Each face looked happy to be waved at, as though they were the only ones we were seeing and bidding farewell to. The illusion was perfect; everyone could feel special when we were waving from the platform because (separated by the tall seats) they couldn’t see their fellow passengers waving back as well. Though regardless, the smiles were genuine. I think the charm of the experience reflected in everyone’s eyes. How could it not?

When the caboose finally passed by us it was like the flop of a dragon’s tail before it disappeared into the ocean. The sound of the train moving into the distance bounced off the river water – the perfect reverb on the fade-out to a perfect evening scene. We watched it weave around the angles of the river and leave Wakefield behind. Rowan was sad to see it go and wanted to follow it, but his Mommy reminded him that there’d be another one the next day and we could see it again. He perked up quickly. Not much keeps that little voice from sounding sunny.

And now as I’m writing this, I’m wistful again. There’s something about having been around the new joy of a three-year old that can remind a grown-up exactly how beautiful everything really is. Well, that’s what it did for me.

As I leaned out my upstairs window today and watched the train, I thought about how every moment can be complete if we just give it the space to be filled. Watching the train pass by at my house takes about two or three minutes, but they were the best three minutes I have spent all day.

I’m glad I took the time.

Band on the Run: Gathering Food for Thought

by Ember Swift on

So, in between touring and festival weekends in the summer months, what does a musician do with herself? Well, there are lots of answers to that question, but lately I have had red fingers, aching knees and scratches all over my skin. What have I been doing?

Berry picking.

(That’s what you were thinking, right? Right.)

This is the time of year when wild berries are all in season. Not to mention strawberries, which are farmed around where I live and readily available. I have picked my share of organic strawberries and now they lie bagged and frozen in my freezer ready for winter smoothies. Recently, I have also gathered gooseberries, blackberries and currants (both red and black).

For me, activities like berry picking are just a means to writing lyrics. I find long bike rides are the same; they each give space and time in my head to just get into a zone and piece words together. Picking berries is not the most inspirational of activities, but it’s the repetition and the quiet that inspires me. I can kneel in the shady overhang of a berry bush for hours and come out with a bowl (and a belly) full of sweet goodness, not to mention a brain full of new ideas to scrawl down on the first piece of paper I can get a hold of once I return home.

I’ve also been out with my neighbours in this endeavour. Getting to know the women in this area has been great. Despite living around here for three years, touring can sometimes keep a person from developing fast friendships with neighbours and I’m glad to say that this is starting to change. All of us neighbours are so different and from so many different places, but together we find ourselves having landed in this same community and then crouched under the same currant bush gossiping about the town and the culture here.

We talked about how we (as outsiders: i.e. those who didn’t grow up here but were drawn here) will always be the “transplants” according to the heritage farmer families. There is definitely a divide going on and we all hoped to build more bridges rather than widening that gap. And, it’s true really. We will always be transplants, but we’re here and we love it here too; we’re all part of this colourful whole that makes up this wee place nestled in the farthest eastern counties of Ontario.

Our town, the town of Dalkeith, has about fifty inhabitants and I am not technically one of them. Living three and a half kilometres out of town makes me a “surrounding area” resident. There are about two hundred people in total if you count all the in-towners and out-of-towners. So, there are a lot more animals and square footage than there are humans, if you know what I’m sayin’.

Dalkeith has a little general store at its centre. This store is also the post office, the animal feed supply store, the local nursery (seeds, plants and fertilizer), the video store, the butcher, the baker and the heart attack maker. By the latter, I mean it is also the greasy spoon restaurant that specializes in a big farm breakfast.

Every morning, the farmers gather for breakfast at around seven o’clock and the place is hopping until about eight thirty or nine a.m. The owner of the store, Jenny, is also the cook and she is usually the only woman in there until the breakfast crowd clears out.

Once, last fall when we were leaving early in the morning for the airport (en route to a gig far away), I stopped into the store with a letter to mail at about eight o’clock in the morning. The place was packed and clanging when I opened the door, but when I stepped in through the threshold it all died out to an eerie silence. A hush literally fell on the place and it felt as though all movement froze with its weight. Thinking of it now, I think I saw an overflowing fork in midair and a farmer’s open mouth, all locked up like a statue. All the men, scruffy-faced and wrapped in bulging plaid flannel shirts and dusty denim jeans, turned and stared at me like I was an intruder.

Jenny was in the back in the kitchen in her apron and she called a greeting to me over her shoulder from behind the butcher counter. Seeing the letter in my hand, she told me to just put the mail next to the cash and said she’d collect from me later. I thanked her because I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. As the door swung behind me, I heard the action resume. Talk about a men’s club!

(And they say men don’t gossip.)

Well, there I was picking berries with three other women in the community, two of whom have young families and husbands and longer histories here than I have, and I asked them about the General Store breakfasts. They laughed knowingly and recounted similar tales of the hush and the feeling of intruding on a secret society. They just shook their heads in amusement.

That’s when I got a great idea. “Let’s go!” I said, standing up. “Let’s gather a bunch of women together and go for breakfast!” Everyone stopped picking berries and looked up at me. “Okay,” said my one neighbour Diane after that momentary pause, and then everyone started talking at once.

So, we’ve got plans to go. And don’t worry, I’ll tell you all about it. I’m sure it’ll be the talk of the town!

I came home buzzing with words in my head with images of gender chaos in Dalkeith, which makes me laugh out loud even now. My new lyrics may not amount to any new song, but the smear of berry juice on the page where they were scrawled will always remind me of the day I spent gathering. Gathering food. Gathering ideas.

Gathering courage to shake it up in a small town.

Without getting on stage.

Sweet.

Band on the Run: “Our Way Home” to Beautiful British Columbia

by Ember Swift on


The musical traveller, Troubadour. Road Rat. Whatever you want to call it, this blog will hold the stories that take place when travelling musicians are not on stage. What happens between the shows? What happens behind the scenes? Ember Swift, Canadian musician and touring performer, will be keeping us up-to-date on what it’s like to tour a band throughout North America. Having just arrived back from Beijing where she spent three months (check out her “Canadian in Beijing” series), she offers a musician’s perspective on road life. Enjoy!

Interior British Columbia is stunning.

I didn’t need to go there to remember that, but of course beauty strikes us when we see it and we’re forced into memory with every glance. And, I’m not complaining. Each glance brings a quick breath in and a gracious smile.

We used to tour across Canada every summer which gave us the chance to be in British Columbia in July or August annually. In the past few years, however, we have done fewer cross-Canada road trips and have opted to fly to destinations more regularly. If nothing else, it’s better for the lifeline of the vans that we drive! And also, I think yearly cross-Canada touring for six years consecutively is deserving of a medal.

And a break.

So, when we arrived in Castlegar, BC in July in the middle of the afternoon and stepped out of the little airplane to the lush green, low mountains, churning river, waterfalls… well, I was reminded of British Columbia’s beauty and grateful to see it again.

We were in Castlegar for a total of eight short hours. It was too brief, but full to the brim with amazing inspiration before we had to roll out of there in a rental car bound for Vancouver in order to make our morning flight. In those eight hours, I met amazing people and took part in a brilliant event called “The 2nd Annual Our Way Home Peace Event & Reunion.”

This region of British Columbia is where the Doukhbor communities are. This is a Russian Christian sect who left Russia en masse in 1899. A huge portion of this group settled in the Castlegar (and surrounding regions) shortly thereafter. They chose Canada “for its isolation, peacefulness and the fact that the Canadian government welcomed them” (according to Wikipedia). Today, it is estimated that 30,000 Doukhobors live in Canada while another 30,000 live in Russia. The largest and most active Doukhobor organization, however, is here in Canada.

Every place has such unique stories.

I had heard about this religious group, but never met anyone who was Doukhobor. The man we met almost immediately and whose house we were to use as a resting pad (i.e. nap stop) spoke to us in English with a very evident Russian accent although he has lived in Canada his whole life. He grew up in the Doukhobor community, though, which was more isolated than many communities and now lives in a private home just a few kilometres from the event. He is currently grey-haired and his face is lined with stories and laughter.

He sat in the front seat of our vehicle to direct us to his home. He chatted easily, telling us about the region and its history. Later, he also sang in the Doukhobor Men’s Choir who started the evening entertainment. Apparently, prayer meetings for this group were dominated by the singing of a cappella psalms, hymns and spiritual songs. So, singing is very traditional to the Doukhobors. Their performance filled the hall with harmony in both Russian and English. I closed my eyes and just listened.

A perfect start to a perfect evening.

And speaking of the hall: it is called the Brilliant Cultural Centre. The event was brilliant and so, too, was the space. Simple and large, and filled with open smiles on the faces of all those in attendance.

After hearing the choir and before hearing some of the speakers, I took a walk outside and I was greeted by the Arlington Northwest Memorial, a dramatic representation of the costs of war consisting of grave markers representing the more than 3,000 U.S. service men and women killed in the Iraq war. This display is sponsored by the Veterans for Peace Northwest chapter (Washington state) and is amazing to take in with your eyes or your lens. There was also a section for Canadian deaths, which was striking. I walked around the whole site, reading the names of the markers I could see, feeling acutely aware of death despite its not being a real cemetery.

Effective.

I felt solemn when I came back into the hall. I quietly found a spot and sat down to take in the words of Arun Gandhi, MK Ghandi’s grandson. The audience gave him a standing ovation when he took to the podium and he gestured for us to sit with a soft smile. He was gentle (as I imagined his grandfather must have been,) but he stood there solidly and delivered a short but simple speech about non-violence and forgiveness. I sat back and took it all in the way one absorbs a slow sunset from a country porch on a late summer’s evening.

The artists and speakers were all incredibly diverse and articulate. One of my heroes, Holly Near, was in attendance and we greeted each other with a big, warm hug and welcoming eyes. She has cut off her signature hair since I saw her last and looks as radiant as ever – perhaps even more so. She was there with Pat Humphries and Sandy Opatow, who sang beautiful back-up harmonies with her during a brief snippet (read: tease) of her performance, which was to be held the next day. I am glad I saw what I saw, though, as she always inspires me and of course I wasn’t going to be there the following day to smile at her from the audience.

Our performance took place shortly thereafter and went well. This was my first show with Lyndell Montgomery since March. It was a joy to hear her music again alongside of mine. The audience welcomed us with open ears. Even though we had to head off quickly when the performance was over, I was touched by the warmth that was offered us and the kindnesses we were offered with every interaction.

Backstage, to one of the women making food for the participants (delicious, organic, vegan food for us – thank you!) and after she offered me something to drink, I said: “Thanks so much. That’s so kind.” She looked me a moment and then turned her head to one side with a coy grin and said: “Everyone’s kind here, sweetie.” I laughed.

She’s right.

We pulled away from the Our Way Home Peace Event & Reunion waving goodbyes and balancing wrapped-up road food on our laps. I felt like I had just left my family’s house after a big family meal.

And so we drove into the sunrise.

The long drive was fuelled by the sparks of inspiration and empowerment that were flying around this event and were in all of these interactions. And, I know that these sparks will yield yet more fire for the ‘good fight,’ the belief that this world will find peace, that this environment will survive…

That the beauty will remain.

To stun us every time.

Certainly.