The Fiddler

A story about a man's journey to find his music.

The Fiddler
By David Levins

It was 7 AM when Tommy Harrison stepped off a Greyhound bus into Savannah, Georgia.

He was a thin man with brown hair, wearing a green t-shirt and faded blue jeans. He was carrying a large backpack with a fiddle case securely fastened to it.

Tommy always liked Savannah. He started walking through its cobblestone streets which are lined with old oak trees. The Spanish moss which draped over the trees' long branches gave the place a mystical feel.

And when that feel is mixed with the beautiful old homes made of brick and stone, and the colorful characters who live in them, it all comes together into a living tapestry.

A living tapestry which produces a rhythm.

A rhythm that resonated with him.

Tommy was a busker, making his living performing music on the street. The fiddle he carried was his instrument of conversation with the world around him. A few years ago, life was very different.

Back then, he was Thomas Harrison, third chair violin in the Philadelphia Philharmonic. Thomas loved getting his violin to do the precise things that a world class orchestra demanded. However, after ten years, his violin felt less like an extension of his soul and more like a cog in a well-oiled machine.

Thomas was just following the directions of a symphony conductor to recreate music that had been played many times before.

One evening, after a long concert, he was sitting at his kitchen table, staring at his violin. At that moment Thomas knew it was time, time to turn this violin into a fiddle and take it on the road. He wanted to play music for everyday people.

It just felt right. Tommy went all in: giving notice at work, informing his landlord, and selling most of his possessions.

Discarding all that was practical created a space, a space to find his music and live his version of the Impossible Dream. Since Rosinante (Don Quixote's horse) was unavailable, he purchased a Greyhound Freedom Pass and hit the road.

The early days were a blur of bus rides and new towns. He'd arrive in a town, find a corner, and start playing. Some days, people stopped to listen and dropped a few bucks into his case. Other days no one stopped. Tommy didn't mind, embracing each moment as a part of the journey, the journey he had chosen. The people and places were his muse as he began to weave them into his music.

To share stories from the road Tommy used an iPad to create a blog. He called his blog "Busking Tour Diary" and included original music he created about the people and places he encountered during his journey. To promote his stops he posted his busking times and locations on social media. Before long, some of his followers started showing up.

In fact, the last few times he'd been to Savannah, Joey Appleton had invited Tommy to perform at his outdoor cafe.

On this day, Tommy played there for a few hours to a receptive audience who tipped generously. Grateful for the business Tommy attracted, Joey also threw a handful of bills bigger than they needed to be into Tommy's fiddle case.

Joey had started off selling his signature crepes from a push cart, before expanding into a cafe. So he understood, understood the effort it takes to connect with people on the street.

Joey's Cafe wasn't his only regular stop. There were places in other cities who would ask him to play. Sometimes fans from his blog would invite Tommy to stay in their homes. Other times hotels offered a free room and meal in exchange for performing in their dining rooms.

Tommy was part of an eco-system, an eco-system that fed his soul in ways the Philadelphia Philharmonic never had.

After spending the early afternoon at Joey's it was onto Forsyth Park. Forsyth Park is a place of substance. Located in the heart of Savannah's historic district, in fact it might even be the heart of the district, as the creative energy from the park pulsates outward helping to create the contours of the district itself.

That afternoon Tommy became part of that good energy pulsating outward, as he enjoyed the rest of a beautiful day busking in Forsythe Park. Now the sun was setting and the park was emptying out. Tommy continued playing his fiddle in this time of shadow and light, embracing the spiritual energy of this place.

He was still playing long after the sun had set. When a tall man, in a cowboy hat caught him by surprise.

At first he was an ominous looking figure, but after looking closer his presence projected a depth of pain that transcended words.

Tommy wanted to ease that pain and did so in the only way he knew. He starting playing his fiddle trying to use it as a conduit to transform the pain into music. He was feeling the cowboy's energy and using it to drive what he played, as concert violinists use sheet music to guide what they play.

Tommy dug down into his core going to places he'd never been before. Trying to create harmony with the energy the cowboy was projecting. Once they got into harmony, Tommy mixed in a few notes of compassion to create a melody. A melody that might help the cowboy connect with the regenerative parts of his spirit.

There was some ebb and flow as they tried to navigate the thin line between reality and the melody being created.

When he was done playing a voice said "Thank you fiddler."

When Tommy looked up the cowboy was gone. Was he ever really there?

He stood quietly for a long time reflecting on what just occurred.

Then realized it was getting late and time to go. He needed to catch the midnight Greyhound to Eureka Springs, Arkansas. He always liked Eureka Springs.