In 2007, I went on a one week study abroad in London,
England. I experienced more amazing things
during those seven days than I ever thought possible. I saw castles, Stonehenge, the Globe Theater,
Westminster Abbey and walked across Abbey Road (with my shoes off, for full
effect, of course), and I encountered one of the most influential people I’ve
ever met.
Our tour group took the underground just about everywhere
while in the city, and after being careful to mind the gap as we exited the
train, we walked out of the subway tunnel and onto a street that was very near
Big Ben and the London Eye. Most of the
tour group ran straight to the London Eye, a Ferris wheel that sits next to the
Thames and gives a spectacular view of the city. It’s a truly mazing experience, unless you’re
afraid of heights.
While everyone else stood in line to go up to the top of the
Eye, I stayed on the ground next to the river, fairly close to the underground
tunnel we had just come out of. There
was a man there playing an acoustic guitar and singing “Yellow Submarine” (all
four parts, no less). I’ve always been
fascinated by musicians who perform on street corners. I’m impressed by their willingness to pursue
their passion despite the meager penance that they receive, and by the courage
that it takes to stand on the street, playing music and opening one’s heart and
offer that creativity and expression to complete strangers in the hope of
brightening their day. It’s a beautiful task, and one that I hope one day I might
be brave enough to consider.
So this man was standing there, just at the entrance to the
tunnel, playing his guitar, and I was completely captivated. I pulled a couple
of pounds from my bag and dropped them into his guitar case along with a hastily
scrawled note that I had somehow felt compelled to write. I can’t remember my exact words but they were
something to the effect o f “Thank you for what you’re doing. It really made my
day”. Something simple, that I didn’t
really think much of.
He stopped after a couple of songs to take a break, and I
watched him bend down and pick up my note from his guitar case. All of a sudden, I felt an awkward sort of
panic creep in. What if he thought it
was a stupid sentiment? What if he really was just in it to make a few bucks?
Or worse of all, what if he thought I was a total nutcase? I began glancing around frantically planning
an escape route when I realized that he was walking toward me. Some people hide awkwardness or embarrassment
well. I turn a color that could rival a
tomato, and there is absolutely no hiding it, which tends to make me blush even
more. It’s a vicious cycle. I’m fairly certain that’s what happened as he approached
me.
The man pulled a snack from a brown paper sack and offered me
some. He said that my note really meant
a lot to him, and that he was pleased that I enjoyed his music so much. I can’t remember how it happened, but
suddenly we were having a conversation and I felt completely at ease. He told me about his childhood as a military
brat, and how he traveled all over the world and finally settled in
England. He said that he really didn’t
need to play music in the underground station.
He had money, and he really didn’t do it for the donations of passing
businessmen. He did it for the very
reason that drew me to him in the first place: to bring joy to other people by
doing something that he loves.
He asked me where I
was from and what I wanted to do when I grew up. At that point, I thought maybe I would be a
teacher. He shook his head at me and said “Is that really what you want to do?”
Well…no. Not really. But I was 15 and people were beginning to ask me more and
more frequently what I wanted to be. ‘Teacher’ sounded safe and often came with
respectful nodding of heads and well wishes.
I had been toying around with the idea of being a counselor. I offered that option and he looked at me and
then shook his head again. “Don’t throw your life away on other people’s
problems. There has to be something that you really want to do. Something that
you love. Something you’re passionate about.”
So I told him my secret desire, the one that I never thought
would work. “I like to write” I said in a meek voice. His face lit up. “That’s it!” he said. “Do
that.” It was completely unsolicited advice, from a stranger whose name I never
learned, and yet something inside me felt that this scruffy looking man was
absolutely right. It was almost as if my
own heart had taken on a human form and slapped me in the face with what it had
been trying to tell me. Something profound
happened in that moment. Something almost magical that I still can’t quite
describe.
I haven’t forgotten about that man in the subway
tunnel. Every time I feel confused or
frightened about the prospect of graduating from college and having to fend for
myself in the real world, my mind finds its way back to that man. I wish desperately that I had learned his
name, or had some way of letting him know him how much our conversation has
meant in my life.
I hope that somewhere, he’s still following his passion,
just like I plan to follow mine.
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