There are days when nothing I hear seems totally believable. The words are all inadequate and two-dimensional, lacking the fatness of truth. The situations I encounter seem stilted and detached in some way, as if they were all scripted after the fashion of some forgettable television rerun. Even the air tastes stale and the sunshine is dull and flat.
And then I see a child stare me full in the face without embarrassment, looking to see if I will be their newest friend. The familiar smell of a passing diesel engine reminds me of my father long gone. The random touch of someone I just met laughing at my silly remark makes my skin tingle with the warmth of humanity. I catch the chorus of a new pop song and recognize some familiar longing to be more than the sum of my parts. The taste of my husband's kiss floods my chest with small butterfly sensations. And suddenly I know I am very much alive.
When I find myself sitting in the graveyard of depression, I do not despair, for the very place that reeks of decay also attracts miracles reserved for the desparate. Resurrection is sweet only because I have tasted the powdery insubstantiality of death. Inhale deeply. Breathe deep the breath of God. All else is but dust.