There's a certain, spectacular wonderfulness that comes from being ambushed by Beauty.  The experience can be disorienting, dazzling, dazing, delightful.  It can be stealthy and breath-taking, shorting your oxygen before you realize you're no longer continuing that familiar ebb and flow of air in and air out.

Remembering to breathe is the thing, when bushwhacked by Beauty.

It could be I am just out of practice and easily ambushed these days.  That's a possibility.  My circle of travels has been slight for the last year or so.  I have worn pairs of ruts into the roads between home and hospital, and permanently scuffed and squeaked my rubber-soled footfalls on the waxed and buffed tiles of antiseptic hallways.

My guard was down.  And, yeah, it's been a while since anything whacked me upside the head, leaving flickering lights and multicolored whirligigs exploding overhead -- like a cartoon character magically smitten with the blinding high-beams of romantic attraction, all stars-and-planets overhead.

Yes:  It has been some time since an avalanche of awe slip-slided my way.  It's been a while since I've made the time to dangle a hook of interest into streams of consciousness other than my own, and just fish, for fishing's sake, for the heck of it.

We all get busy.  Our plates get too full.  Things slide.  Fun takes a back seat.  We get closed off from new experiences.  Our paths and ruts deepen as we age -- even though we might prefer to think of them as the calm that comes with security, sameness, satisfaction.

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