No one expected the monks to walk into Smokey Joe’s Stage last Monday. It attracted the usual suspects. Dana Lalonde who now calls her self DL, Robertson who plays instrumentals but gives them titles to balk at racism, Zbitnew who wears a Robin Hood hat and sings songs that are ten minutes long (nine of challenge the crowd with boredom). Nervous first timers reading lyrics off their phones, trembling thumbs. And the regulars who came for the vague hope tonight someone sings something that accidentally changes their life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Around nine o\u2019clock the door opened and in came four Buddhist monks. Saffron robes, carrying walking staffs and calm expressions nobody in the bar had ever seen. The room went quiet in the stunned way of what happens when people are unsure if they are hallucinating. The host, a young songwriter named Marigold, approached them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWelcome,\u201d she said. \u201cThis is an open stage. Are you looking for someone?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The lead monk bowed. \u201cWe are walking across America for peace.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat makes sense,\u201d Marigold said, even though it made no sense at all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The monks took seats near the front. They watched as the night went on. A young man sang a heartbreak ballad he wrote that morning. A man in a trucker hat performed a spoken-word piece about his cat\u2019s spiritual journey. A shy teenager named Soozi played a song that was so vulnerable half the room had to pretend they had something in their eyes. The monks listened with the kind of attention that turned each song into a small ceremony.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When their turn finally came, Marigold asked gently, \u201cWould you like to share something?\u201d The lead monk nodded. Stepped onstage with only the bowl he carried. He struck the rim with a small wooden stick and let the tone ring. It was a long note, vibrating like the memory of a childhood comfort. At first the crowd wasn\u2019t sure what was happening. Then they fell into a silence deeper than anything Smokey Joe\u2019s had witnessed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After the tone faded, the monk spoke. \u201cOn our walk we listen. To the highways. To the wind. To the anger in the country. Tonight we listen to you. Your songs are offerings. Each one is a step toward understanding.\u201d The room held its breath. Then, as if to puncture the solemnity, someone at the back shouted, \u201cDo you know any Dylan?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The monk considered this. \u201cWe know of him,\u201d he said. \u201cHe is also walking.\u201d That brought the room back to life. People laughed. Someone bought the monks ginger ale. Marigold put on a kettle because she had read somewhere that monks might prefer tea. The night rolled on. More musicians played. The monks clapped after each performance, softly. The atmosphere shifted. By midnight the monks rose to leave. The lead monk bowed, \u201cThank you for the songs,\u201d he said. \u201cThey remind us that peace is a practice, not just an idea.\u201d Marigold nodded. \u201cSafe travels.\u201d And for the rest of the evening, every songwriter played as if the monks could still hear them.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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