I am sitting in an airport in Portland contemplating what might have motivated me to impulsively by two cd's from a lone man playing his guitar and singing through a simple one-speaker setup in the concourse. Perhaps it was the feel of the notes as they floated through the air of a generally impersonal space. Perhaps it was the desire to support one with such courage as to do what he loves in the world. Or perhaps it was what he said to me.
After sitting for a while with what can only be called half-listening ears, as I shared the first phone conversation with my husband after a weekend apart, I walked over to the man. He sat, guitar in arms, singing and playing into microphones, with long gray hair and a lengthy beard. He was beautiful. As I approached the table where his recorded gifts of music lay, he stood and greeted me. "How much are your cd's?" I asked. "Fifteen dollars for one, twenty five for two, or thirty five for three," he responded. "But may I first tell you about them, so that you may know which to choose?" "Absolutely," I replied.
But before he began to describe each cd and his journey with it, he asked me, "Do you play?" "What... guitar? I used to. And not very well," was my surprised response. "Oh, that's not what I was talking about," he said. "That doesn't matter. What matters is the feel of it. There is something that can be expressed through music that cannot be expressed any other way. It's like a young boy in the forest whacking on trees with a stick. Nothing else quite reaches that place. It's like when you play a single note, and you can't help but play another just to see where it takes you. This is why it doesn't matter WHAT you play... even a kazoo. It only matters THAT you play."
And then his soft attention turned to his creations there on the table before us. One by one he explained to me: this one is a live cd with many things edited out from airport conversations, this one he prefers because it really captures what he does, and that one came one night as he sat with his guitar tuned particularly low as the moon shown in the window. I stood before the array and was mesmerized by this man and the loving awareness with which he spoke of his songs. "Now, aren't you glad I told you about them? You wouldn't have wanted just to grab one, not knowing what you would be getting."
And that was it. I asked him about cash or checks and where the nearest automated money machine might be located. Then he returned to his guitar and began his gentle soothing of the passersby as they rushed from flight to flight, some sitting at tables to eat, and others barely listening as they spoke to loved ones through cell phones. I returned, chose two, and acknowledged my gratitude.
Perhaps it was compulsive buying that motivated me. But perhaps it was something else. The gift this man gave me just had to be returned. And I am thankful.
