Entertainers

COVENT GARDEN STREET MUSICIAN

Is it too late to become a street performer at 36 years of age?

I have a soft spot for every human being I meet plucking an instrument, singing, dancing, or doing all three on some street corner or in some public square. In short, I have a soft spot for anyone trying to make a living - a supplemental one - in an impractical, creative way.

Many years ago when leaving my senior prom, there was a gentleman playing the violin outside the party venue in downtown Boise. My date was a talented guitarist. Though I viewed him as a friend, there was something romantic in the fact that he paused and dropped cash into a fellow artist's case.

When my family strolled the fashionable section of Honolulu a few summers ago, there were many street performers, painted to look like and standing as still as silver statues with whom you could pose (not forgetting to tip, of course). We have pictures of our children on the busy streets of Hawaii's capital, standing by a shiny, smiling stranger.

Some of my favorite memories of meeting street performers happened during my trip to England in April 2015. There was a casually but well-dressed man in his fifties with close-cropped hair playing one of my favorite songs, "Mr. Bojangles", in Convent Garden. That was the day my friend Holly and I chose to souvenir shop for family and ate Coronation Chicken at a little cafe nearby called Charles Dickens Coffee House. Though this middle-aged entertainer had an ordinary appearance, he played and sang extraordinarily well, and I was surprised more people weren't gathered around to listen. Holly loaned me money to contribute because I was fresh out of change. (Change meaning good money - for quite some time we didn't realize some of the coins were actually worth one to two pounds; we just threw them around like they were humble pennies!)

Later, when we went to beautiful Bath, we heard "The Music of the Night" from The Phantom of the Opera soaring as we entered the courtyard of Bath Abbey. A young man was playing the arresting melody on his violin beneath a bright blue sky elegantly adorned in small, wispy clouds, creating a haunting contrast. I regretted that I had no easy cash to show my appreciation, but I would not importune my friend again.

MAGNIFICENT BATH ABBEY

Even my dusty corner of the world is adorned with street performers. I have a friend at church who sings in the company of her faithful dog around sports and entertainment arenas. She confided in me that an old friend of hers thinks she really shouldn't be singing for cash. People either like or hate my voice, she said, but she still performs in front of strangers.

And every so often I see a young black man sitting on the sidewalk outside my local grocery store, a violin case open by his feet, the violin cradled beneath his chin. He seems wholly engaged in illuminating a melody with his bow, indifferent to passersby. I've only ever had cash on me once, retrieved from my car, but I am always pleased to see this talented young man, privileged to hear his gift, and I would contribute to his dream every time if I had the wherewithal.

Lately, I have thought very illogically to myself, Why, I can sing okay...play the guitar a little....maybe I could take flamenco dancing lessons!

Wouldn't it be lovely to make your dough doing something so perfectly free-spirited and defiant?

But whether I ever joined this strange band of lively, brave people or no, I am so glad they have their open yet intimate stages all over the world.

As time goes by

I cried this morning at my younger children's school, and it took me by surprise. I walked around, trying to avoid eye contact and keep my hat pulled low. It always stinks to not have a tissue when you need it.

It wasn't Gabriella and Daniel's first day back. They're in third and first grade, but they started last week.

The tears started because as I surveyed their school campus this morning, I missed my oldest daughter's presence there. Analisa started at a large public middle school today, the one her big brother Berto attends.  

It's a school where I can't walk in and stroll around with her as we talk, laugh or sing with our arms linked.

All last year when she was still a sixth grader we did just that in the mornings until the bell rang. My younger kids ran off to play as long as possible with peers, but Analisa eagerly returned to me after putting her backpack away. Sometimes I worried that I should push her to go make more friends or hang out with a close friend instead of remaining close by mom, but I confess, too, that I loved that time together and cherished it, because I knew we wouldn't always have it.

And now we don't.

And it just hit me all of a sudden this morning on her first day at her new school, a school where I drop her off at the gate after giving her a long hug in the car. Standing alone, I looked across the tot lot and basketball courts of the school she attended for seven years, and I saw that time had passed by and taken something precious with it. I tried to control my emotion, blindsided, but I soon realized there was no hope for it, and when an acquaintance asked me how I was, I babbled about Ana's first day of middle school, trying to explain.

I was grateful that Gabriella and Daniel, who normally only want a hug and kiss st the last moment as they prepare to walk into class, found me. Daniel embraced and squeezed me. Gabriella, sensing something, held my hand and walked with me for a bit.

Observation became my companion this morning, too, and I saw the profound gift of familial bonds everywhere. I saw older siblings holding the hands of their younger brothers and sisters, showing them the way and speaking encouragement. I watched parents of kindergartners gently extricate themselves from their little ones after a last kiss goodbye. I understood the tears of the little girl who didn't want to be separated from her older sister for the day after the bell had rung.

My husband Matthew said I would be glad when our kids went back to school, and I assured him my emotions would be mixed. Obviously, there have been some rough days this summer. Those wore me down, definitely, but there were really good days, too, built around fun games, visits with friends and nature excursions.

So...just like a mother who prays for her toddler to go down for a nap, not knowing how desperate she may become if she doesn't, feels while watching her sleeping child's lovely face that the house is suddenly too quiet, so I knew it would be for me when summer break ended.

All good things come to an end. I just didn't realize how much I would miss them.

Being a mother

A couple of weeks ago, on a particularly strife-filled day with the kids, I exclaimed, "Being a mother is the worst job in the world!"

At least, that's what I hope I said. I am still not certain whether I said "a mother" or "your mother".

When I confessed this to a priest I know well, he raised his eyebrows with a very surprised look on his face.

Yep. It's just something you should never say as a mother, and it's not how I truly feel at all - at least not 99.9 percent of the time. Most of the time I am very grateful that I get to play games with my kids in the morning and afternoon; have spontaneous conversations about important things and feelings during breakfast or on the way to school; goof around, talk in silly voices, and share our weird dreams; and to simply be there, smiling at their small or grand special moments while looking in their lovable, youthful faces.

But being a mother is a very hard job indeed. Here you are, a human with her own many imperfections and weaknesses, and you must raise little humans with their own imperfections and weaknesses. Somehow, they have to turn out more than alright, despite the fact that while raising them to be decent people, you're struggling all the while to be a decent human being yourself.

Sometimes...just sometimes, mind you...it feels humanly impossible to do this job. Like those times when all your children seem to want to do is tattle on each other, threaten each other with broom handles, say biting things to each other, call each other names and argue while doing anything at all together.

And you? Well, you're sick of hearing only a selected part of the story; telling your kids it is never okay to touch another person in a way they don't like; reminding them that family is family, and they should be grateful God blessed them with siblings; and that you will never tolerate them calling each other dumb, stupid or any other adjective that insults someone's dignity or damages their sense of worth.

All that tension and repetition is exhausting.

There are times when I wonder if working parents comprehend just what their children's paid caregivers, teachers or helping grandparents must do all day. All the boo-boos they must fix. All the sleep, nutrition and potty issues they must deal with patiently. All the arguments, temper tantrums and epic battles they must defuse. All the disciplinary challenges among different personalities they must confront effectively. All the repetitive conversations about right and wrong and making good choices.

The continual forming of children.

To be fair, they can probably guess pretty well based on the challenges they face each night, tired from a different sort of work.

Besides, we remind ourselves that the flip side to all that stress is found in the many gifts of the moment: the hilarious or revealing conversations, the laughter, the snuggles, the thank yous and pleases from a well-provided-for child, life in the moment of a child's excited, bashful, mischievous, grateful or grinning face.

Being a mother is a vital job. It's a vocation. A calling. It's essentially asking God for a share in his generative, life-affirming work and professing your dedication to it afresh each day.

It's based on Love. It has to be, or it would indeed seem like one of the most pitiable jobs in the world.

But it's not.

When you wistfully remember the adorable, helpless little creature your child was from the womb and recognize that with the important and consistent help of your flawed but nurturing efforts your child is blossoming and learning to become a kind, helpful, thoughtful and loving person, you realize yet again.

It's the best.