Maslow At The Beach

Full confession: I hardly ever give money to people on the streets.

I have unfortunate first-person knowledge of two truths: (1) a large number of homeless folks have serious addiction problems, and (2) addicts serve only one evil, soul-crushing master. Through personal experience, I have been reasonably sure that if I give money to any homeless person, my donation would likely not go to feed their child, dog, pay for their gas or help to better themselves. Instead, the high probability is that my donation would go to feeding their addiction and prolonging their particular regrettable situation.

So, take it as it is, that's been my exhausting and sad bias.

Then something changed: We went for a holiday to San Diego in search of an urban sea-side break from our rural, occasionally boring and claustrophobically small desert life. We headed for the coast to drink in the delicious chaos and cacophony that urban life offers. To happily roll in the torrent of discordant sounds, voices and cultural diversity that desert life lacks, in the midst of this often monotonous red rocked, red-state reality.

We took it all in... observing the tourists and the natives, as one does in a new place. In the street below, our nearest natives were a small band of car-dwellers who had developed a sort of unofficial resident status in the free parking spaces at the seawall down on the beach.

Blue van, white van, old Jaguar, hippy van. The vehicles rotated spaces, gaming the system but retaining their turf. They lived on the beach. They lived off the land. The police often gently just looked the other way. A solid collective, they tried to find a decent and largely peaceable existence. Some assembled bicycles from parts. Others panhandled. A few of the car-less scavenged the trash bins, and sold this-and-that on blankets spread on the boardwalk. One guy stood out to me immediately, as he had an admirably eclectic and sophisticated taste in music and shared his good music with all passersby. Sometimes it was classical, other times heavy metal, or jazz. Or folk. Always interesting. Our DJ at the beach.

This guy was an enigma. Every evening he would sweep a clean area at the end of the street at the seawall, about 15 feet by 30 feet. He'd block it off with cones and white buckets. He would assemble two fishing poles attached at the end with a hoop of string. He would then carefully set aside several of these white buckets, and mix a suspension. Testing the wind. The humidity. Just right. He seemed to use at least three, possibly four ingredients. He'd mix, test, refine. And then he'd wait for sunset to commence. And he'd make bubbles. Big bubbles. Huge bubbles. Bubbles the size of cars, or city buses. Most people, even the jaded, could not help but smile. Kids especially. The gentle music played, making it an even more surreal moment. They'd dance, jump, squeal with joy at times. He'd make a few tips, ask people to follow him on Instagram. He'd keep this up for at least 2 hours, into the dying of the light. Every single night.

Some nights were windy. He'd alter his mixture to fit. Some nights were rainy. He'd do it anyway. Some nights had no crowds. His income suffered, but he kept at it. His job.

On my last evening in San Diego, I gave this fellow a bunch of cash. Fair compensation for important services rendered to society in general. Good music, smiles and laughter. And bubbles. At the beach.

When I was observing these homeless fellows -- people who had friends, lives, and even jobs that they had invented for themselves, I think I finally understood something fundamental about where I am in life.

I took my first job (out of economic necessity) at the age of 12, and worked more or less continuously until just a few years ago... 55 years of working, more or less. And today, with many of the past year's projects behind me, I find myself idle some of the time.

Maslow's Hierarchy talks about the things deeper than food and shelter. And in these post-occupation 'salad days' of my retirement days I am reminded of that. You can only do so much gazing at the horizon, no matter how pleasant the view. We all need purpose, meaning, and some elements of joy if we are to stay above ground in this life. I admire the Bubble Man as he literally conjured up a job out of thin air: a noble job that throws off some cash and gives people genuine joy. I am inspired by his drive: even in his extremely challenging situation, he has found something important.