When I was a child, I think about 8 or 9 years old, I went up to this magician after his magic show as he was packing up his suitcase of tricks and said quite bluntly:
“I don’t believe in magic.”
At the same time I was trying to peer into his suitcase, trying to figure out how it all worked.
He looked up shocked (while hurriedly shutting his suitcase shut) and practically shouted “You don’t believe in magic?” with such incredulity I almost changed my mind, but there I stood, resolute, and shook my head. Stubbornness runs deep in the family blood.
I don’t remember what happened next, but isn’t it ironic how more than a decade later, I look for magic every day? Children may be the wisest among us, but I don’t think that applied to me back then.
As I got older though, I grew myself a bit of sense. When I was 11, I honestly believed that if I swung myself high enough on the swing set I’d fly.
And now that I’m sensible enough to keep an eye out for it and to know where to look, I find it lurking in the most unexpected places, waiting to spring its surprise on me.
Incredible.
It is good to be alive.
Enough said here.
