a little breathing room

2002-09-19 - 10:49 a.m.

There's a particular pile of messages in my inbox that I have to prepare myself mentally to read. Twice daily reminders that I am lucky to be able to breathe, to walk, to live, to play. Rarely does a week go by that there's not an electronic obituary included. Sometimes more. I have been known to cry at my desk.

These messages are joy and pain and hope. Baring of souls and I feel like an intruder listening in. But I am grateful to be reminded at least twice daily that my work is not in vain. That there are people who count on me, even if they don't know me. Even if they hate me. Faceless hatred was a hard concept to adjust to, but sometimes pain just needs somewhere to go.

Today as I read of people who cannot breathe enough to walk to their car, play with their children, or dance a two-step anymore I am listening to Miles Davis' perfect horn. His breath flows through it to carry the vibrancy of a life to anyone who'll listen. Maybe breath is the most magical part of the music.

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Pretend it's 10th grade. Leave me a note.

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