We are standing in front of our apartment on a hot and humid morning, and it is the first time in over a week I have been well enough to take him to daycare. We welcome this return, although we do not speak it. It lives in our eyes, in the way we look at one another. Everything once again in the right place. A bird chirps brightly from above and I ask Jones what it said.

“First he said hello to me then he said hello to you.”

Take a deep breath.

Try to do a little better.

It was a small affair, just a little trip to Prince Edward County. The weather was ridiculously beautiful, and like so many other people, we headed to Sandbank’s Provincial Park to meet some friends, friends who had carved time and space out of their lives to drive up from the city to see us. Often, it feels like friendships are circumstantial rather than permanent aspects of a life, little more than rushed appointments to reschedule, but when you’re by the water time moves differently. Nothing is hurried or obstructed, and friendships returns to the effortless state of grace from which they once emerged.

The day slipped away easily, and soon enough we found ourselves having dinner with about a dozen people at a nearby campsite. Sitting around the bonfire everybody was happy, happy like this was the only spot in the world they wanted to be, and these people, strangers and friends alike, were the only people they wanted to be with. Somebody with a strong and steady voice, the sort of voice that could lead the rest of, picked up a guitar and began to play Canadian classics.

Bobcaygeon.
Heart of Gold.
Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Hallelujah.

Songs known in the bones.

And after each one, faint applause rose up from the dark of unknown campsites as other people let us know that they were there, too, a part of our circle even if unseen. After an hour or two, through all all the coincidences, improbabilities, miracles and tragedies that led us to this point in time, Rachelle and I went down to the beach, lay on our backs and looked up at the sky.

I took my glasses off. The stars, they were already so far away, how were my glasses going to make them any more comprehensible? It amazes me that the stars, such a permanent and essential declaration of the beauty and mystery of our existence, are occluded from those of us who live in cities. How could we let that happen? How could we travel so far from what we are?

And within this simple night, the sound of water lapping at the shore. A train in the distance. Disembodied music, rising like ghosts from the lake. Somewhere laughter and wind, a girl splashing and giggling into the water and a boy following her, and all around us infinity stretching out in every direction.

I often pass Hand Job Park as I take our dog Heidi for a walk, and as fate would have it, I’ve become friendly with Billy, one of the men who spends time there.

Because I have really lousy teeth and travel with an oxygen tank, Billy believes that I am a reformed crackhead, and am thus something of an inspiration to him, evidence that you can turn your life around and one day inhabit a beautiful family. As such, he’s always asking me for advice, and I have taken on the unofficial role as Billy’s Life Coach.

Every Sunday, I walk down to the park, talk to him about his week, and give him a written list of daily goals for the next week. This was my last list:

Monday:

Find public fountain and wash clothes.

Scavenge with your head, not your heart. Look for healthy, nutritional garbage opportunities such as a discarded smoothie, for instance!

Say it out loud to yourself, again and again, “My name is Billy and I will Scavenge Smart!”

Walk for at least six hours.

Learn how to tune guitar.

Affirmation of the day: THERE IS A GIFT FOR ME IN EVERYTHING THAT I EXPERIENCE.

Tuesday:

When busking, perhaps do it in front of Shopper’s instead of the liquor store? Why tempt yourself? Remember Billy, GOOD CHOICES.

Stay away from Hyena’s Old Lady. Remember what happened last time she gave you a hand job?

Walk for at least six hours.

Practice guitar for an hour.

Affirmation of the day: THE VOICES IN MY HEAD ARE NOT REAL. I AM IN CONTROL.

Wednesday:

Today I would like you to go some place quiet (perhaps the Green P Carpark) and center yourself with some light stretching and meditation. Be mindful, Billy. Feel the sun upon your skin and hear the birds singing. You are not separate from nature, but are a perfect and integral component of nature.

Surrender to oneness. Think of everything in your life (guitar, Bo Jackson football jersey, etcetera) that you are grateful for and carry that with you throughout the day like it was a weapon in your backpack.

Remember to walk at least six hours.

Practice guitar for an hour.

Affirmation of the day: THE PAST IS OVER AND MY FUTURE IS NOW!

Thursday:

While busking, take an interest in the lives of those passing by. Remember, they’re people, too. However, remember not to take too intense an interest in the lives of the nearby Sorority girls.

Although you may mean “spicy” as a compliment, they may not take it that way.

Just because you’re homeless doesn’t mean you can’t be a part of society. Make inquiries into joining Choir! Choir! Choir!

Walk for six and a half hours.

Practice guitar for one.

Love yourself for twenty-four. : )

Affirmation of the day: EVERY MOMENT I STEP INTO THE WONDERFUL UNKNOWN

Friday:

Treat yourself to a nice wash in a public fountain.

Feel rejuvenated, in love with yourself and the world around you!

As today marks the opening of the Olympic Games in Rio,

why not jazz up business with a Brazilian theme? When strumming your guitar, add some latin flair! Try to scavenge for food that is unique to Brazil, and if one of the voices in your head speaks Portuguese, have a conversation with it!

Today is a reward day, so score some dope or booze if you can and celebrate the beautiful life that is Billy!

Affirmation of the day: REMEMBER TO GIVE HAND JOBS AND NOT JUST RECEIVE THEM!

As a child it’s a time of unquestioned magic. Delirious with excitement, we charged about like maniacs while wonderful things fell all around us. Time had no meaning. Everything and everybody was imperishable and glowing, weightless.

As adults, now visited by disappointment and loss, sidetracked and mortal, Christmas has a depth that often feels like weight. Everything ages– we miss people and sometimes, we miss the people we were, too. Vulnerable in ways we never quite imagined, we watch the children now, and knowing that all things change, a subtle undercurrent of nostalgia and melancholy runs through the holiday, and even as we’re living the moment, we’re aware of its passing.

This year, our families were with us, intact and safe.

It’s a stunningly beautiful thing, that, and to consider for one moment all the small, unseen miracles that took place in order to keep us together through the years, distance and unimaginable fires is to be filled with respect and gratitude.

At any rate, all families are miracles, and on this Christmas there were probably around 20 of us sitting around a long, make-shift table. Our two nephews are about 11 and 13 now, and we’ve had the privilege of being close to them and watching them grow.

They look like angels. Talented and mysterious, they hover on a periphery as if a beautiful visitation.

Their parents told us that they wanted to do a small performance after dinner, and when the time came they quietly, shyly, even, stood at the end of the table– one wearing the fur hunting cap that he got for Christmas, the other with bracelets of candy on his thin wrists. Then, after glancing at one another and nodding, they began to snap their fingers in rhythm and sing.

I had never heard them sing before. I’d never even thought about it. And so, right there, something I had never considered, something I had never imagined, was taking place before me. And they sang beautifully. It was utterly stunning, as dislocating and awesome a discovery as if suddenly finding a majestic snow-capped mountain where the 7-11 had always been. It was, I thought, magic.

They were singing the old John Lennon song “Beautiful Boy,” and they were singing it to Jones, our four month old baby boy. They weren’t up there looking for attention or validation, they weren’t pushed by their parents. They were self-directed and acting out of love. It was a pledge, I think, a rite of welcome. Jones would always be protected and loved by everybody in that room and the family beyond. It was such a pure and astonishing moment, so holy, that it felt like time expanded in all directions and was really just one big circle that contained us all.

It was not an easy year for us, but Lord, we were so lucky, and there was Jones, sitting on the lap of his beaming mother, and all around him, for as many years as could be counted, family, each one a loving star in his cosmos.

Over at the bar sat an older man, his hand inside the dress of a young, very drunk woman. Her body was bending and curving into his, grinding and pressing, the bare flesh of her back exposed like a wound. Careful and still as a predator, he was looking past her incoherent eyes to another point in the evening, waiting.

Another man, probably near 60, had a mop of charismatic grey hair and carried with him the manner that suggested a confident expectation that things were going to work out in his favour. He’d talk to anybody, fully expecting that they’d be happy, even flattered, to chat and then move tables to accommodate him. Familiar in an indistinct way and able to immediately establish a hierarchy within the place, he had the aura of celebrity.

He turned out to be John McDermott, a Scottish-Canadian tenor and sort of middle of the road performer that your parents might really like.

Incongruously, accompanying him were a group of 20-something Bros, all dressed like they were ready for a night of poker and drinking in a buddy’s kitchen. There was a raw, unkind edge to them and they were treating McDermott like he needed them more than the other way around. They were egging him on, and in short order the room was called to silence and John McDermott sang Danny Boy for us while his crew, holding cell phones in front of their faces like masks, took disinterested videos while continuing their snickering conversations with one another.

The singing was lovely, and many people looked like they felt blessed to have been present for such a spontaneous gift. But still, there was something mechanical and imposed about it, like we were tourists who had just been taken advantage of by sneering locals who now expected us to pay.

I wanted to clear my head a bit from this and stepped out on the balcony. The city was soft, fuzzy and fog-lit, the skyline glowing.

Near me on the railing arrived one of McDermott’s young crew. He was wearing a black hoodie and had a smudge of a moustache on his upper lip, and rocking his body back and forth he pulled deeply from the back of his throat and horked over the side and down to the street 18 floors below. He then went into the bar and proceeded to talk the really drunk woman away from the older, predatory man, bringing her back to his group, a trophy now, for all of them to enjoy.

It’s long been a dream of mine to play professional hockey, and this is a goal I’ve worked very hard to achieve. Unfortunately, I’ve never been quite good enough to make the grade, and as the years pass by my chances of making the NHL are rapidly diminishing. In an effort to remind the NHL GM’s and coaches who might still be looking for a character guy in the locker room, of just how committed I am to this dream, I am providing a short list of some of the things I’m willing to do to fulfill my dream of playing in the NHL.

I am perfectly willing to serve as a shutdown, 4^th line centre, instead of the natural, 1^st line scorer I am, if it gets me into the NHL faster.

I will continue with my figure skating lessons, trying to improve my balance and explosiveness on the ice in order to make me a better team player.

I would not hesitate to drop the gloves.

I will cut back on my shifts at David’s Tea in order to train more.

I would consent to wearing a suit and tie to and from the rink for every game.

I would kill a bird with a rock.

I would be willing to relocate.

If necessary, I would subordinate my natural leadership skills in order to better serve the team.

I will say no to hanging out with friends and going out to parties because I know I have to be up early the next morning to train.

I would have sex with Tom Hardy– even though I’m not gay or even remotely curious about what being gay might feel like– in order to prove how serious I am about playing in the NHL.

I would also have sex with Tom Hardy and Daniel Craig– even though I’m not gay or even remotely curious to know what it might feel like to be gay with two other stunning and sexy men– in order to prove how serious I am about playing in the NHL.

I would give up my participation in fantasy hockey in order to protect the integrity of the NHL and the great game of hockey.

I would take up hunting in order to better fit in with my peers.

I would consider giving up gluten.

I would also consider giving up Choir! Choir! Choir! in order to more fully dedicate myself to my dream of playing in the NHL.

In front of the Shopper’s Drug Mart there was a busker who likely saw Melissa Etheridge when she looked in the mirror. Wearing a beaten, red leather jacket, her hair was a wild scramble, and she sang with a ferocious, biting confidence. She was middle-aged, and all the songs she was playing were classics from the latter part of the 70s, songs that must have recalled the field parties of her youth when everybody passed joints around the bonfire, nodding along as she sang so fully, her future path seeming so clear.

At Sarah’s Shawarma the woman serving me had big, butcher fingers and the look of a farm worker from Eastern Europe. Her eyes were tender and vulnerable, suggesting that all she wanted to do in this world was help other people. And at the only occupied table in the place sat a thin and pale man wearing a Rush sweatshirt. He was finishing the last of his soup with such a dreamy pleasure that I had no choice but to simply stop and watch—as if bearing witness to a pure and holy moment.

When I stepped out onto the street there was a sudden chorus of Happy Birthday. The voices were in tune, harmonizing, and it was lovely, like music you might imagine hearing from across the water, something passing through time, as if light from a star. I looked around and eventually spotted them, five college-aged boys striding happily down the street singing into a cell phone one of them was holding aloft, “Happy birthday dear Rita, happy birthday to you,” and I thought of Rita in 30 years, one day, for no particular reason, remembering the surprise of this message and those beautiful boys.

1. Repurpose Mayan Apocalypse Escape Pods.

2. Get in shape.

3. See a UFO.

4. Read at least three books.

5. Stop with the cosmetic surgeries, maybe get tattoos instead.

6. Stop Hate-Visiting Facebook pages of people who drive me crazy.

7. Go easy on the cocaine.

8. Become a volunteer.

9. Text more.

10. Join Choir! Choir! Choir!

11. Be the man.