Saving for dreams isn’t just about numbers on a bank statement—it’s about hope, intention, and trust in a future you’re building one coin at a time. When I see a teenage busker balancing on the edge of a busy street, guitar case open, notes tumbling out as coins drop in, I soon realize this is more than music for passersby. For him, every coin matters, each carefully stored in separate mason jars, each labeled for a different dream. Travel. College. A new guitar. It’s a world divided into goals, each with its own personality and purpose.
What’s remarkable isn’t just the music or his discipline—it’s the way he manages risk without calling it that. Autism shapes the way he moves, how much eye contact he makes, and the focus with which he counts his coins. The world can sometimes seem overwhelming, but the jars help him order it. The system is rigid, but there’s comfort in that order. Variety, as most financial gurus would say, is the spice of a stable portfolio. But for him, it’s a way to manage anxiety about the unknown. If you break one jar, you don’t lose everything. If travel one day seems impossible, college and music dreams still have their small reserves.
Have you ever split your hopes into tangible parts like this? If you lost one, would the rest give you comfort—enough to keep going? When we talk about “diversification,” many imagine stock tickers and retirement plans. Here, it’s glass jars on a shelf, the clink of coins echoing with intent.
He’s not the first to approach life this way. Kim Peek, the savant known as the inspiration for “Rain Man,” compartmentalized massive datasets in his mind—historical events, calendars, facts—filing each in mental jars. Daniel Tammet, who sees numbers as colors and textures, manages languages and mathematics the way others might tend a collection. Leslie Lemke, blind and autistic, taught himself to play intricate compositions after only one listen—learning, discipline, and creativity all contained in their own mental jars. The world often describes them as “different,” but perhaps they simply see risk and possibility with uncommon clarity.
The mother in our story, fiercely protective and perhaps a little worn down by the world’s sharp edges, worries as only mothers can. She’s seen his struggles, the misunderstanding in others’ eyes, the quizzical glances on the bus as he taps out scales and hums to himself. She wants to shield him, to gather all the jars in her arms. But when one falls and shatters—a loud, sudden reminder that even carefully constructed plans can break—she discovers something profound. Her son mourns the loss, but the rest of the jars remain, untouched and intact. His method, so simple and unassuming, has done what the finest investment portfolio aims to do: preserve the future in the face of disaster.
Isn’t that what we all try to do? Find a balance, so one setback doesn’t erase all our progress. Yet how often do we mix all our dreams into one fragile container?
“He who is not courageous enough to take risks will accomplish nothing in life.”
—Muhammad Ali
The lesson here isn’t about autism, or even about disability. It’s about the wisdom of breaking big, scary futures into smaller, survivable hopes. The busker’s jars are a form of self-advocacy. He’s saying, in effect, “I deserve more than one chance at happiness.” The jars become resilience you can see, touch, and count.
Consider this: in many investment courses, teachers use envelopes or separate accounts to illustrate this same point. But there’s honesty in the mason jars. You see exactly how much you’ve set aside for each hope. There’s no hiding, no digital fog. When you save this way, you confront your priorities—do I want to travel more than I want a new guitar? Does one dream get set aside for another this month?
The mother, through this process, discovers something she never expected. Her son, whom she has always shielded from disappointment, already has a system for recovering from loss. She sees, for the first time, his capacity not just for survival but for wisdom. He’s been practicing balance in a world she thought was all sharp edges for him. She sees hope in his persistence, in his willingness to keep playing, keep saving, even after one jar is gone.
“Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.”
—Albert Einstein
Music is his currency—notes exchanged for coins, then coins for dreams. But music, too, is a lesson in balance. You can’t put all the melody in one hand, all the rhythm in another, and expect harmony. You blend, you layer, you anticipate some notes will be louder than others. Some will break off early. Performers know improvisation is about recovering gracefully from what doesn’t go as planned.
Isn’t there a kind of portfolio strategy in building a song? Themes repeat, evolve, sometimes fade to let something else take center stage. In this, the busker teaches anyone willing to listen—not just his mother, but the city, the strangers throwing coins—that growth comes from both structure and adaptability. That the most powerful safety nets are often homemade, personal, and visible.
What would your jars look like? Which dreams would you label first—and could you let one go if another broke?
The busker’s autism isn’t a limitation but a lens. Savant syndrome isn’t present in every autistic person, but when it is, it often brings the kind of focus that can turn small habits into remarkable strengths. The brain’s wiring shapes not only what’s difficult, but also what’s possible. Some may struggle with change, but they also become masters of pattern, routine, and incremental progress. You might call it a “special interest.” Here, it’s a practical guide to risk management, lived out on a shelf by the window.
When the mother sweeps up the broken glass, she’s not just cleaning up the mess. She’s letting go of the idea that security means clinging tightly to everything at once. She realizes sometimes the best protection is careful separation—seeing each dream as worthy, each jar as a small act of hope.
“Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.”
—Winston Churchill
We’re often taught to avoid risk, to fear loss. But the busker’s system asks us to accept that some jars will break. Loss is inevitable, but catastrophe isn’t. That’s a subtle difference, but a powerful one. When you expect occasional setbacks, you prepare for them. You keep something in reserve; you don’t bet everything on one outcome.
In conversations about autism, risk, and planning, we sometimes overlook the wisdom that comes from lived experience. Many autistic people have to plan for sensory overload, social misunderstandings, and a thousand little potential disruptions every day. Saving coins in separate jars isn’t just about money. It’s a way of managing a world that can be loud, busy, and unpredictable.
Have you ever watched someone recover from loss with grace—not just in finances, but in daily life? What did you learn from their strategy?
The busker’s music wafts through the city as the sun sets and crowds thin. He packs up, jars clinking, the broken one left behind. Yet, he smiles—there’s enough left for tomorrow’s dreams. His mother, once anxious, walks beside him, lighter now, knowing her son’s method is wiser than she thought.
When we teach, we often imagine ourselves as the givers of knowledge. Here, the teenager is the teacher. His method—fragmented, visible, intentional—reminds us to give every dream its own jar, every hope its own space. Diversification isn’t just a finance term. It’s survival, persistence, and growth, measured out one coin and one song at a time.
So, next time you pass a street musician, stop and listen. You might not just hear a melody—you might glimpse a strategy for life, hidden in a row of jars, each echoing with the quiet, steady sound of hope.
