by D. Brawn-Mitchell

Created on: November 02, 2010   Last Updated: November 04, 2010

Amazing Grace in Chinatown

I love my Saturday mornings, and Chinatown is one of those places I consider worthy of spending a few of the morning's precious hours. It’s a meditative time for me, in spite of the jostling, ever moving merchants with their carts on my heals, reminding me that I’m always-in-the-way.

On my most recent shopping trip to Toronto's Chinatown, I started my browsing on the east side, north of Queen St. I examined the bins of root veggies - sweet potatoes, pumpkins and onions. I moved on and selected some red and some yellow peppers, and then noticed on the hydro pole, scripted in black marker on a white paper sign, that zucchini was going for ten for a dollar. Fabulous deal, except the two us at home could never make use of ten zucchini before spoilage and I said as much to the fellow shopper standing by the bin, pointing at the sign. She guffawed with a hint of understanding at my situation. No one wants too much zucchini.

It was a cool autumn morning and the air was crisp, the sky a baby blue. The earthy scent of the veggies reminded me of my grandmother in her garden harvesting her yield this very time of year. I barely noticed the shuffling sounds of the merchants organizing boxes for the increasing crowd; all was as it should be.

Then music started. A lovely voice in song awakened one of my senses that had obviously been still asleep from the night before. The world renown song, “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound . . .” cut through the atmosphere as if a crystal clear stream was now running down the sidewalk. The market corner had become a bit busier since my decision on sweet peppers, but it didn't matter; I was stunned. The moment of song was earth-stopping beautiful. I looked up to find that the lovely notes were coming from a tall, black lady oblivious to the crowd or even a single soul around her. She sang a sweet refrain and the zucchini lady and I caught each other’s eye. It was evident that we both enjoyed the soloist as much as the other.

Spadina’s traffic never knew the lovely thing they missed in their hurried passing. The song stopped as quickly as it started and I moved on to the spectacularly coloured fruit in the uncovered boxes, with the notes replaying in my mind. I knew that being present to hear the lovely gift of song was in itself an amazing grace.

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