A Philosophy of Joy

Further Conversation With Nahariya's Musical Ambassador 

After my first interview with Shimon Horowitz was published in ESRA Magazine, I found myself drawn back to Nahariya's promenade, where, for five years, Shimon has been riding his tricycle while playing music in a mission to brighten up people's lives. There was something magnetic about this 78-year-old man that called for deeper exploration. His flower-adorned tricycle was parked near a bench overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, and he was silent for the moment as he enjoyed his morning carrot juice. When he spotted me, his eyes crinkled with recognition.

"Miri, since our last conversation was published, people have been stopping me more frequently. They now call me 'the philosopher on wheels,'" Shimon laughs, gesturing for me to join him on the bench.

I remind him of something he shared in our previous talk: "You mentioned that your purpose in life is to spread joy and wellbeing through music. That's such a profound personal mission. Has this always been your philosophy?"

"Not always, no." He gazes thoughtfully at the sea. In the beginning, on Kibbutz Ma'ayan Tzvi in the 1960s, music was simply my passion. I fell in love with The Beatles. Back then, being the disc jockey was about connection, about bringing people together on the dance floor.

"You mentioned you know about 50,000 songs."

"Yes!" His eyes light up. "Music has been my language, my way of communicating when words fail. During my time in America, it became a way to maintain my identity—to remember who I was."

"You mentioned previously that material possessions don't interest you. That's rather countercultural, especially after living in Las Vegas."

Shimon chuckles, running a hand through his Hemingway-esque beard. "Vegas is precisely where I learned the emptiness of material pursuit. In a city built on the fantasy of instant wealth, I saw people chasing money but finding no joy. That's when I began walking the streets with my speaker, playing music. I noticed something magical — people would momentarily forget their gambling losses, their worries. They would smile, sometimes dance a few steps".

He pauses, watching a group of children running along the shore.

My transient stroke clarified everything. When you face mortality, trivialities fall away. I realized that what mattered wasn't what I owned, but what I gave. That's when my philosophy crystallized—to make each day one of 'health, happiness, joy, and love.

Do you still take life spontaneously, without much planning? Has that approach been challenged during the recent conflict?

His expression grows solemn. "During air raid sirens, when everyone rushed to shelters, I kept riding my tricycle and playing music, not from recklessness, but from conviction. I prefer to die once and for all than to live in constant fear".

Shimon leans forward, suddenly animated. "Fear constricts the human spirit. Music expands it. In those moments of collective fear, someone must remind us of beauty."

You spoke about raising your daughter to be fearless. Do you see your public music-making as an extension of that teaching?

He smiles proudly. "Absolutely! When my daughter sees this old man on his flower-covered tricycle, playing music during difficult times, she understands deeply what I taught her—not just in words, but in action. Fear nothing. Live fully. Find your joy and spread it without reservation."

Are you still considering a move to Tel Aviv or have you decided against it because of the overcrowding? It strikes me as a very practical decision from someone so philosophical.

Shimon laughs heartily. Philosophy without practicality is just empty words! What good is my mission if I can't fulfill it? I would be stuck in traffic in Tel Aviv, my music unheard. Here in Nahariya, I move freely, connecting with people directly. The medium shapes the message.

He gestures toward his tricycle. This isn't just transportation. It is a mobile sanctuary of joy. The flowers aren't merely decorative; they're symbols of life's beauty and fragility as well. When I give them to children, I'm passing on more than a flower—I'm offering a moment of unexpected delight, teaching them that strangers can bring good things."

Do you see what you do as spiritual work?

"Without question." His voice softens. "Spirituality isn't found only in synagogues or prayer books. It exists in connections, in moments of shared humanity. When I play music that resonates with someone—perhaps a song from their youth or their homeland—and I see their eyes light up, that's a holy moment."

He pauses, sipping his drink.

"When I returned to Israel just as Covid hit, many would have seen terrible timing. I saw perfect timing. People needed connection more than ever. The universe placed me exactly where I needed to be, with exactly the skills required."

You told me last time that existence is very individual. Yet you dedicate yourself to collective joy. Is there a contradiction there?

Shimon smiles thoughtfully. "No contradiction. My individual purpose manifests itself through collective experience. We are separate yet connected—like notes in a symphony. Each is unique, yet part of something larger. My existence finds meaning through others' joy, yet that meaning is deeply personal to me.