Another lesson by a homeless man

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...

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