| Maureen Killoran
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| | mattered, and that was perhaps the
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| Dogs distrust hot air balloons. I
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| | biggest lesson of the morning. Letting go
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| gathered this tidbit as my husband and I
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| | of anxiety. Letting go of fear. Letting
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| floated over the mountains in a wicker
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| | go of expectations. Letting go of
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| gondola, listening to the barking chorus
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| | everything -- except the absolute
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| that followed us even 3,000 feet into the
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| | pleasure of quiet flight, confidence in
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| air. The burner evokes canine protest --
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| | the balloonist's competence, and
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| but we had no problems, as we drifted
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| | sensitivity to the beauty of that is our
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| with the currents and contemplated the
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| | gift for living in these hills.
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| silent fog in its morning retreat over
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| | Take a hot air balloon ride. Treat
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| the hills.
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| | yourself to a massage. Walk in the early
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| | morning dew. Listen -really listen-- to
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| "Are those sheep?" my husband wondered,
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| | the insects, the birds. Smile at a cat
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| pointing to toy animals far below. "No,"
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| | you haven't met. Take time for the slower
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| said our pilot placidly. "Cows." They
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| | things and Life will find a thousand ways
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| turned out to be horses, but who cared.
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| | to turn the blessing back to you.
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| For the duration of our flight, nothing
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