Wheeze away.

The robin was perched just off-center in an apple tree bursting with soft pink blossoms. It puffed out its rust-colored chest and burst out into powerful song.

I heard it clearly.

I wished I hadn't.

This poor robin sounded something akin to a puppy's worn-out chew toy when stomped on violently. It wheezed painfully, each powerful, monotonous note a squeaky, airy blast of tiny bird breath. This was not a singsong robin. This was an emphysemic robin. 

I hurried my steps ever so slightly to move out of earshot of the wheezing bird, yet found myself strangely intrigued by its continual, repeating, yelping warbles. Surely this bird could hear. Surely it heard itself on the very first wheeze. If I'd been that robin, I'd surely have ceased my song upon first squeak. But this robin kept singing. On and on, unabashedly, with all of its tiny little diaphragm. Squeak after squeak after wheezy squeak.

"I'm not very good at that…"

"That's not my strong point."

"So-and-so's much better at it. Ask her."

Today, I'm going to stop worrying about how untalented I perceive myself to be. All I'm going to worry about is doing each task with every tiny bit of my being. Even if the first note doesn't come out just right, I'm going to keep right on singing, squeaking and wheezing and warbling or not. After all, I'm singing for Someone much more important than the sidewalk passerby.