The Hungarian violinist’s son
By Joanie Blaxter
The universe is speaking to us every moment of our lives. Our daily life is our canvass, our sonata, and is singing to us with each breath we breathe. Can you hear the sound of trust?
In 1999, I made a trip with my young daughter from our home in Vermont to spend a week in San Diego. It was more of a spiritual quest for me than a vacation. Five years earlier, I had had a strong lucid dream which haunted me still. The message was clear: the West coast of California was my true home. Furthermore, in the years ensuing, multiple intuitives, independent of one another, had confirmed my interpretation of the dream: go West to live by the ocean. So, by the miracle of credit card debt, my daughter and I took a one-week vacation in San Diego. Although I didn’t have the faintest concept of how I could ever afford a cross-country relocation, I was loosely considering it to be an exploratory trip.
While waiting for a bus after a day at the San Diego Zoo, a homeless man approached me for change. Although I personally had had lots of experience dealing with panhandlers in urban areas, this was an eye-opening experience for my twelve-year-old who had rarely been out of our small, very white, very New England town. Swarthy complexion, extremely bloodshot eyes, filthy clothes, he looked like a street person—too much alcohol, too much living outside. Yet in contrast to his strong Mexican features, he also had startlingly light blue eyes. His manner was intelligent, affable and engaging. No, no, no, I wasn’t going to give him any money. And then he quickly changed subjects, asking me where we were from, why we were visiting, etc. Since it was much like talking with a pleasant tour guide, I respon-ded by asking him about him-self. He said his heritage was mixed, and his father was not only Hungarian, but also a musician, a violinist in fact. I remember thinking, “Wow. Does he tell this to everyone, or just the gullible-looking, single mother tourists?” He admitted that nobody ever believed him, but swore it was true. The blue eyes certainly indicated some kind of Caucasian background.
Anyway, after about ten minutes of chatting and no spare change from me, he wound down his story and we parted amicably. When the gentleman got halfway down the block, my daughter turned to me and asked plaintively, “Mom, can I give him some money?” My heart melted. So I gave her a few bucks and she ran down the street. When he took the money and immediately headed into the closest fast food joint, I was glad I had.
Fast-forward nearly eight years. My mother had died and I used my surprise inheritance to follow my dream (literally) to move to Southern California. It was a challenging transition in which I had released nearly everything familiar. My daughter had just started college and I missed her. I was alone in a new location and starting my life over completely from scratch, trying to find sustainable work and new friends. Given the roughness of the ride, I was not at all sure I had made the right decision.
At lunch with a new acquaintance, we discussed the possibility of whether I should give up and return East. Eventually, the topic moved to spiritual topics that really stimulated us both to new levels of thought. Animatedly exchanging concepts from that expanded, emotional space, we stepped out of the restaurant to continue the discussion at the beach when abruptly a very dirty man walked right up to us and without hesitation asked, “Do you have 80 cents?” My friend and I both involuntarily stepped slightly away. “No, man, sorry,” my friend responded. It wasn’t until we had rounded the corner that it dawned on me why those eyes looked familiar—it was the Hungarian violinist’s son!
Astounded, I explained the story to my companion and said “What are the chances of me meeting him again after all these years? Why now?” And he responded “I think it means you’re supposed to be in San Diego.” Nice thought, but... An hour later, as we walked back to the car, still animatedly talking, I literally bumped into the same gentleman again…
The next time I see him, which I will, because I’ve decided to remain in the area, I’m going to at least find out his name and give him a $20 bill because some how, somewhere, a panhandler on the streets of San Diego is a part of my conversation with the universe.
Joanie comes to us by way of the Turtle Womyn’s Network and will
be teaching Transformational Breath workshops at The Village Witch
in the future. For more info on Turtle Womyn click
here.
To email Joanie click
here.