I got on the tiny ferry to Toronto Island this morning, and a chilly, windy one it was. Go inside or stand at the bow. An easy choice, and I loved watching the ducks take off as our vessel chugged into the fog. I kept hoping that one duckie would be brave enough not to fly, that it would just steer clear of the big metal thing. No such luck.
Once ashore I wandered the narrow paths between the Ward’s Island houses. Many were tiny. I loved the ones that were lit from within. Such a cozy place to call home. Flowers and bushes were past their seasonal best and the trees arched over me in their skeletal blackness. My coat and toque kept me warm. I was happy.
It was time to wander down the island to the church. I came upon a geodesic dome, about fifteen feet tall. Lots of silver metal triangles. As I got closer, an intricate web of black ropes revealed itself. A climber! The shapes inside were squares and hexagons. I imagined kids loving every second above the earth. The floor was a spongy rubber, ready to cushion the occasional fall. I smiled. Waydago, designing adults.
And then the church … brunch at 12:30, folk concert at 2:00. I knew no one but I didn’t think that would last for long. And it didn’t. Anne and I talked about the brilliance of Stan Rogers, a singer-songwriter who died in a smoke-filled plane in 1983. And not just talk. The two of us broke into a rollicking chorus from Northwest Passage:
Ah, for just one time I would take the Northwest Passage
To find the hand of Franklin reaching for the Beaufort Sea
Tracing one warm line through a land so wide and savage
And make a Northwest Passage to the sea
Soon I met Julia, Roger, Jo, Linda and Karen. We all sat at the same long table and chatted away as we dug into salads, beans, squash and cheesecake, all grown in island gardens (with the possible exception of the cheesecake). The church was a small wooden structure built in 1884, all white outside and all brown wood inside. The tall stained glass windows included Jesus praying at Gethsemane. Lovely all around.
Our musicians were a guitarist from California and a violinist from Toronto. They showed us Bach and Vivaldi and an Irish reel and a Balkan dance. We clapped and cheered as the sound surrounded.
Outside the wind was whipping the season’s first snow sideways. Inside the building and inside our bodies, all was well.
It’s a community I found today and I became a part of it. Blessedly home.