We were on our way to dinner with friends when we stopped at Oliver’s Market to pick up a few things for the meal. As we got closer, my daughter took notice of the man outside the store strumming his guitar. His face was weathered, life’s toll taken out on him in a hard way. He may have only been 50 or so, but his skin was so beat up he almost looked to be 80. His hair was in need of a cut, not to mention a wash. His clothes were soiled with probably everything he came across in the past month. All his belongings sat beside him tied up in a worn looking pack, and a simple cardboard box lay about 3 feet in front of him with only a couple dollars in it. He sat cross-legged against the wall with his guitar in his lap, the outside world nonexistent to him as he sang with his eyes closed.

We’d seen Oliver Stamps* before, making his living with his acoustic guitar outside Safeway. Well, to be correct, we heard him before we saw him. This sweet voice drifted to the parking lot as we walked from our car, the guitar only a compliment as the notes played with his voice. He sounded young and alive. It seemed curious to hear such a talented sound just at Safeway. The songs were not familiar, and I can’t even remember the words he used. But the melody was haunting and surreal and I had to see the source of such a sound. We came closer and saw him. It was the same man that sat before us now, his eyes closed, singing to a world inside his soul and giving us outsiders a glimpse of his personal reality.

Life’s been so busy lately. As summertime is coming to a close, we’ve been cramming the weekends full of activities, trying to hold onto the summer moments for as long as we possibly can. And the weekdays go by in a blur as I work and the kids go to day camp during the day, and then we fit in some sort of event for the evening. We’ve enjoyed a weeklong camp, Tuesday night dinner with friends, going to the Market every Wednesday, visits with their dad on Thursdays, and now we are adding two to three soccer practices a week along with soccer games that start in September. I have my whole schedule recorded and color coded, and have a plan for attack on how kids will get to activities and who will be where at what time. Once school starts and soccer is underway, we won’t even be home for dinner half the week.

I’m not complaining, though I do have my moments of personal pity parties (please see past blog entries). This is just the way things are when there’s one parents, two kids, and three agendas. I have heard from several different people that they are amazed at how I do it all. I’m not repeating that to sound cocky. Even I am amazed sometimes, and even proud, that I can allow my kids a somewhat normal life without letting my single status get in the way. It has just become our way of life, our version of normal. But between driving kids into their different schools in the morning, working all day, picking them up at various points of pick-up, driving them to their obligations, taking care of dinner, and putting them to bed, there is hardly enough time to breathe. My free time is limited immensely, the idea of fitting another event in my schedule almost overwhelming. It’s gotten so bad that I may have to drop or alter my babysitting sharecare because I have run out of free days for when this could take place, thus limiting the few social interactions I enjoy. And I tend to mentally hyperventilate just thinking about the future when the present feels like it could fall through the cracks if there is even one loose stone.

Oliver sat with his guitar in his lap, unknown images being painted inside his eyelids as he melted words all over the pavement in front of us. And though in a hurry, I slowed my step and leaned against a pillar to just capture the moment for what it was. We stayed silent as he sang, and the world and our insane timetable evaporated while the music took over. It was only for a couple minutes. Afterall, life still has a funny way of taking precedence. But that small moment reminded me of the importance of breathing, taking the time to inhale and exhale, stop and listen to the music.

Everything will be there when you come back to earth.

Email me at winecountry.singlemom@yahoo.com

*The name of the guitarist is unknown. The nickname has been affectionally handed to him by myself and some friends who have seen him outside the Post Office among several stores (i.e. Olivers). Hence, Oliver Stamps was born.