Sometimes I really do get it, that the creative work is the reward. Yes, I know this intellectually, but too often my Evil Editor/Inner-Salieri gets in the way and confuses me.

Today, I walked through the Juarez market on my way to my last meal of carne asada and chorizo and grilled onions and peppers cooked right over the fire in the hot smoky gallery (served in wide wicker baskets with fresh tortillas, guacamole, pico de gallo)...

... and there was the Blind Band. Near the sanitorios, four or five blind musicians gather to busk every day.

And I looked at the young singer holding the mic, singing well, singing with full focus, and I had one of those moments.

He was in the song. The singing was all of him.

Sure, other parts of his life might suck -- a poor blind Oaxacaño performing for coins near the mercado public bathroom. And in another situation, seeing him sitting at a comida counter or watching him tap his way along the street, I'd feel sorry for him. Bum rap, I'd think, with my American middle-class sense of entitlement.

But today I witnessed an artist in full-flow singing, singing, singing, and I got it. Nothing to pity here.

Creativity is the blood in our veins.

I cried.

(and then I ate chorizo)