It
was really getting to be autumn: Cold, wet, and grey. I'd donned
thermal underwear and fur-lined boots for the first time this
year.
I'd just finished some shopping, and was getting ready
to leave the supermarket's parking lot, when I heard music coming
from the area of the shopping carts.
Now, sometimes, people
will beg in front of the supermarket. As a matter of fact, to enter the supermarket, I had had
to make a little detour around a man who was kneeling right besides
the entrance, putting himself obnoxiously in the way. I didn't
understand why he was kneeling (with his body upright) - it looked
very uncomfortable. I thought he was trying to push my guilt button with
the posture and didn't give him any money.
But the music -
guitar strings being softly plucked - was coming from a different
area. I followed the sounds. Even though the man's baseball cap was
shielding his face, I thought I might know him. He was another - well,
beggar, I can't really call him.
He never begged. It was more
like he was open to accepting presents or alms. He never had a sign
out, never spoke, never looked at you to plead silently. He would
just sit quietly to the side of the entrance, out of the way, have a
little tin outside, and thank everyone very politely who gave him
something. I'd seen him many times, and spoken to him on and off.
He
was different from the many people I knew in my town who lived on the
streets. His clothes always looked quite clean, and I knew he
regularly washed his sleeping gear. His eyes were a brilliant blue,
and when he looked me in the eyes, I often wondered how he'd gotten
to live on the street.
So yes, as I squatted down besides him,
and was able to look beneath the cap's bill, it was him. And he was
playing guitar, just like the last time I'd seen him in summer. He
hadn't noticed me then, being so deep into his music.
I
started to chat to him, asking how the job he'd told me about was
coming along. He told me how because he had been an epileptic as a
child and young man, he couldn't even get the subsidized 1,50€/h-job
the social services try to offer people like him - everybody seemed
afraid of the responsibility, even though he'd had no seizure for the
past 13 years, even being off the medication for the past 8 years.
I
started feeling sorry for him, but then he said: "I've made my peace
with that. I'm happy I got a flat - it's very difficult to get
off the street when people know you've lived on the street, or been
in prison." He told me how he'd remembered his love for music
and started playing again, and how happy that made him. He said he'd
gotten so much help, he wanted to try to give back, starting with the
music.
We talked for half an hour, or an hour? I listened,
mostly, curious and grateful for this peek into a life quite alien to
me. I was amazed when he said that since sitting outside was now all
about playing music, the people were much more giving, and he wasn't
worried about the money anymore because it didn't matter to him any
longer. He was happy and grateful for what he had, and he only wanted
people to give him money if they really wanted to, if it was a gift
from the heart.
He told me how now that he sometimes even had
a little extra, he really enjoyed giving some of his buddies still on the street a five
or a ten, especially when they looked as though they'd had a bad
day.
One day, he'd wanted to do something nice for an old lady who, not
having a lot of money, was sad that she couldn't give her
grandchildren big and expensive presents. He'd already tried to cheer
her up by telling her about his memories of the quality time with his
grandma who had been, by the smile on his face, much more lasting
than any presents she'd given him. He tried to inspire the lady to offer her grandchildren that unique quality of spending time with them that he remembered from his grandma.
I felt humbled and blessed by what he shared in a very quaint manner, not a trace of pride in his word, just gladness and gratitude.
I'm so happy for his sake,
that he remembered his love for music, and shares his music with the
people passing him by, wanting them to be happy, even if only for a
moment. I'm glad he found a flat, and had the inner strength to not
let himself down, and that he, as he said, "found his faith
again".
You never know where the teachers and reminders
appear...
PS:
As of nine months later, I haven't seen him anymore, and when I asked a clerk in that store, he said that a lot of clients had complained and they'd asked him (and the other beggars) to not come there anymore.
I
first published this story in October '15 at www.kindspring.org, a truly awesome plattform to find inspiration.
Curious about what the other lesson was that I learned from a homeless man?
Read on here...
