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