Washington, D.C.

A Monday morning taxi ride to the Cannon building for Rachel's motivational speech at a congressional breakfast brought a tangibility of real events and people as historic buildings fragmented in speed outside the window, and I felt transported back in time.

Our driver brought my bleary thoughts to the present when he asked, in thick Indian accent, “What is your skill. . .your talent?”

Rachel and I exchanged glances and I hastened to tell him she was an amazing speaker, so he chatted with her as I gazed, feeling interrupted, out the window. His conversation drifted to cherry blossom season and made me sniff involuntarily despite my airtight quarters and the January bitterness outdoors. But he asked again, his rear view mirror glance in my direction, “You look smart – what is your talent? Everyone has one.”

Stuttering and grasping for words, I managed to mumble something about relational skills and I blushed as hypocrisy glared obvious.

Sessions I had attended over the weekend played a rhapsody inside my heavily beating heart – sessions on acting instead of just saying, doing instead being, walking instead of sitting – and as tears sprung – sharp and unexpected – into my eyes I nodded, words and human compassion spilling forth, “What's your talent?”

“Nothing. I'm nothing but a damn taxi driver and what have I got? Nothing. Use your brain, use your skill, use it.”

“But everyone has one – everyone. . .”, I reminded, catching reflected passion in his dark, wrinkled face.

He pulled aside the curb, and put his hand out for his fare; As I hurried to count out his money, amidst our flurried departure, I heard,

“Music. I love music.”

Smiling and curious I opened the door, and, fighting with the wind whispered, “Then use it.”