One of those days

It was a perfect spring day—blue skies, mid-teens, and a light breeze.

The day began with a lovely smoothie, made with a great protein powder I recently discovered. After that, I had a 75-minute deep Thai massage. From there, I headed down to Kensington Market to meet my good friend Lee at Moonbean Café.

He was sitting on the back patio. I gave him a warm hug, sat down in the sun, and we talked for a while before heading toward the lake.

As we walked by the Minsk Synagogue—one of the oldest in Toronto, and perhaps one of the most neglected—I noticed the rabbi sitting on the front porch with two others. I hadn’t seen him in years, so I walked up and shook his hand. Lee went to pick something up from a nearby store, and once the rabbi’s visitors left, I sat beside him and we caught up.

It felt like divine timing.

At one point, he mentioned his desire to create a center for spiritual and mental health. I told him I had been working on that very idea for years. I shared my experience of attending early morning prayers at Beth Tzedec after going to the Village Shul for a long time. I realized that while prayer was meaningful, there was never time to truly connect with people. When I heard that Beth Tzedec served breakfast afterward, I started going there simply for the chance to talk and connect.

They had even come up with a name—The Center for Spiritual Well-Being—for a program aimed at helping people with spiritual and mental struggles. I told him how I had created a four-page brochure outlining what such a center could look like. He said he’d love to see it.

It felt like a vision I had been carrying for years was finally beginning to move closer to reality.

I pointed to the large building across the street where meals are served to the homeless twice a day, and where some even sleep. I mentioned that in all my wandering, I had seen many Christian-based shelters, but not a single Jewish one. And while those shelters provide essential support—food and shelter—they rarely offer true rehabilitation.

He agreed. We spoke about the need for a Jewish center—one that truly helps people rebuild their lives. There is so much untapped human potential in those who are simply trying to survive. The rabbi mentioned that he has occasionally allowed people to stay in the synagogue. It’s something—but people need more than something. They need a path to real healing.

When Lee returned, I shook the rabbi’s hand, and we continued on, catching a streetcar down Spadina to the lake.

Within ten minutes, we were at the water’s edge.

As we walked, I found myself sharing a reflection: how kindergarten is, in many ways, ideal. Children get to choose what they want to do—blocks, water, sand, kitchen play—along with structured moments like snack time, rest, outdoor play, and storytelling. There’s constant interaction, bright colors, and a sense that life is good.

Then comes Grade One.

Suddenly, we’re sitting in rows, unable to freely interact, listening to someone often uninspiring teach things that may not truly matter. Movement is limited. Expression is constrained. A piercing bell dictates our rhythm. And this continues for twelve of the most formative years of our lives.

By Grade 12, many are wearing darker colors, and it feels like something essential has been lost—like 80% of their natural genius has been dimmed. Compound that for the truly unfortunate ones who may have grown up in a dysfunctional 'home' and the path often continues into expensive post-secondary education, leading to debt, jobs, and a life that can feel more like a structured confinement than true living.

We found two Muskoka chairs by the water and sat, looking out at the waves and the distant islands.

Around us, people seemed half-asleep—a man beside us alone on his phone. Only a child and a dog appeared truly alive, wild, and free.

I said it felt like most people suffer from “Grade One Syndrome”—a gradual shutting down that begins early and continues throughout life. The word education comes from the Latin educare, meaning “to bring forth” or “to uncover.” True education should reveal a person’s natural gifts and encourage their development.

Instead, our system often does the opposite—it covers over those gifts, leaving many disconnected from their own talents and creativity.

We sat for a long while as the wind picked up and waves lapped gently over the concrete. At one point, Lee looked up the name of the ducks swimming nearby. It struck me how natural curiosity arises when someone is simply given time and space.

It made me think—we need places where people can go to rediscover themselves.

As it grew cooler, we got up and continued walking. I noticed again the subdued, almost zombie-like energy around us. Passing a restaurant, I realized that perhaps people eat and drink partly because it makes them feel something—makes them feel alive.

Just the other day, another friend and I were talking about how, in cities like this, there’s often a subtle feeling that we’re not truly living.

Lee and I have always done “living things” together—long walks, music in his studio, deep conversations. There’s always something real that emerges.

We need more of that.

More dancing, sauna, swimming, walking, playing, creating, gardening, breathing.

More life.

We ended up at one of the nicest restaurants by the lake. At one point, I became aware that our time together was nearing its end. I could feel myself being pulled back into the strange life I’ve been living for so long. I shared that with him—that I wished these kinds of days could simply flow into everyday life.

Being by the lake felt sane—the water, the wind, the open sky.

As we looked back toward the city, all we saw were rows of condos. I thought about how people can live in those units for decades without truly knowing their neighbors.

And I found myself saying:

Surely, there must be another way to live.

A way that feels like a village.

A way where we are not so alone.