Street Musician

A couple weeks back Alyss and I went out to see my family in Omaha. Here's a highlight from the trip. After a lovely breakfast at The French Cafe, I picked up my adorable six-year-old nephew, Hunter, and took him across the red-brick street to listen to a violinist who was playing a slow classical tune. Street musicians always get to me. Their loneliness. The beauty of the music. Their often tattered clothes. The silent appeal for cash. They are a tribe unto themselves, poets and prophets all.

Anyway, I picked him up and walked over to have a listen. This may well have been the first street musician Hunter has ever encountered. I squatted behind him, put my hand on his chest, and we listened together. Hunter stared and stared. I gave him a dollar and motioned for him to put it with the others in her case. "Thank you, sweetheart," she said, continuing to play. Hunter didn't know what to make of it all, and I wonder what wonderings ran through his mind.

I lifted him up and swayed a little, dancing to the tune. Our violinist, as if on cue, picked up the tempo into a lilting Celtic diddy. The sun was shining, spring flowers were out for sale, and while the world bustled around a boy and his uncle moved to the melody.

We sauntered away for a few steps before I turned and felt a divine presence smile through me to the musician.