Yes, Listening to Music Is Therapy

I ’m walking on Revere Beach outside of Boston, where the low tide has pushed the ocean far away from the shore and the wet sand is squishing up between my toes. I came here for no particular reason—just to clear my head after two frantic weeks in the city, surrounded by noise, construction, and crowds. A briny, sweet smell hangs over everything in the thick humidity of September. Warm air and wafts of cold breeze intermingle—it is T-shirt and jacket weather both at the same time.

I sit in a hard plastic seat on the blue line as the car speeds smoothly forward. The blue line trains are some of the oldest; they feel like an anachronism. I’m counting the stops to Government Center, where I’ll get off to pick up the green line, looking at the passengers. A couple of small children with plastic buckets taking sand souvenirs home. A college student lost in her book. A man with workboots and the dust of a day’s work clinging to his clothes. As we get closer to town, more people get on, and I can no longer see the children or the young woman with the book. The man in the workboots gives me a nod, and I nod back. The train lurches, and we instinctively grab onto a pole to stabilize ourselves.

Before reaching my stop, I find myself in a coffee shop, my saxophone case under the table at my feet. I’m reading the morning newspaper, people-watching, enjoying a Danish and picking up bits of conversation around me. The place is jumping.

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