Despite his rough beard and nerdy glasses, the thirty-something man wore a dapper gray hat with ribbon trim, a long-sleeved button-down shirt, dark dress pants and a gold wedding band, looking every bit the part of a polished citizen of the world. He played the baby grand with a talent meant to impress.
Yet no one paid the slightest bit of attention to him.
A woman slept with her head face down on a table not ten feet away. People scrolled through their emails and took calls on their phones nearby. A man with a rowdy toddler walked right by the piano as if it wasn’t even there. No one clapped at the end of the song.
And yet, he played with the energy of someone performing on stage at Carnegie Hall instead of in a crowded airport concourse.
At the top of the hour, he closed the keyboard, packed up his things and started walking away. He wasn’t waiting for accolades. I caught up with him to drop a tip in his jar and thank him for playing, wondering aloud what motivated him to keep going when it seemed like no one was listening.
His answer: he appreciates any tips people can spare, but more than anything, he just loves making music. And he’ll do anything to get a chance to play it, even if no one is paying attention.
That’s just what buskers do.
I spent my 20s in Washington, D.C. and commuted 50 minutes on the Metro to get to work downtown. Most days, as I came off the long escalator out of the subway, they stopped me in my tracks. I usually heard them long before I saw them. To this day, I still can’t pass them by.
Street musicians are a different kind of special.
Saxophones are my favorite. You can hear them wailing as you get off the train below, and they get louder and louder as you come up out of the station. By the time you get to ground level, you can barely carry on a conversation with a person right next to you!
The musicians position themselves strategically on the sidewalk, but people rarely stop or even acknowledge them. They blast out notes for the sheer joy of it (and the occasional tip).
It brings a smile to my face every time.
Back in D.C. last weekend, my ears perked up when I heard an amplified harmonica. I crossed the street and walked halfway back down the block to see who was playing it.
An unassuming, white-haired Asian man in a plaid shirt and khakis sat alone on a concrete bench. His iPhone and music were positioned next to him, but he didn’t glance down once. Maybe he’s been playing harmonica for years. Maybe he’s retired. Who knows.
But on this beautiful spring Sunday afternoon, he tapped his feet to the beat and played a tune that elevated the happiness level of that whole block.
What a gift to the world. Clearly, doing what you love has no age limit.
Even with people cheering you on, it takes courage to step outside your comfort zone and do what matters to you. But it takes next-level determination to do it when it feels like no one else cares.
But here’s the thing. The fact that you can’t quantify your effect on others doesn’t make your impact any less real.
So start by doing what fills you up because it makes you happy. Even (and especially) when no one is watching.
Then see what happens. You just never know who you might benefit along the way.
