My blogger pal, Richard, over at The Gangs of San Miguel de Allende, often writes about the magic moments of Mexico.
OK. He often writes from deep inside the tongue-embedded land of Sardonia. But of magic he speaks.
He is not alone. Most Mexico bloggers, from time to time, write about their magic moments. Number me amongst that multitude.
If I said Oregon is filled with magic moments, most of you would laugh. After all, my home state is far better known for its eccentrically bipolar political system rather than any sense of romantic adventure. That honor probably goes to Georgia.
We Oregonians love our scenery, but you will not find magic amongst our attributes.
Or so I thought. This week, while waiting for my ride to work, the ambiance of the day distracted me. Clear skies. Sun. An almost-perfect 55 degree morning.
I started pulling a few weeds from the border along the sidewalk. The type of pesky weeds that seem to survive any thorough weeding.
While bent over, I heard a whoosh over my left shoulder. And then another. A sound more akin to welding than to morning traffic.
And then it caught my eye. A ball of primary colors passing over the chimneys of Salem. Looking like a pied Mary Poppins.
Of course, it was not magic. It was merely a hot air balloon. Probably hunting for an energy source in my politician-filled town. Where we have more hot air than rationality.
As I watched the balloon pass, its grace enraptured me. Yeah. I know. Shiny moving object. Attention lapse.
But hot air balloons are inherently beautiful. So smooth. So powerful. So colorful.
And then it was gone. I knew where it was landing. At the small park one block south of me. Where Jiggs and I took our evening strolls.
Brief as the experience was, it added a grace note to the morning. Actually, to the entire day.
Like most people, I get in a rush during the day. Mornings probably being the worst with my return to the working class.
The balloon -- even the weeds -- were teaching me a simple lesson. Treasure the brief moments of life.
Yeah, I know. It isn't exactly Sartre. But anything that lets me enjoy life is all right with me.
And the balloon was magically all right.
