Magic

Today was magical.

I started the morning by talking my way into a Pilates class at a studio in Fort Collins that has absolutely no obligation to let me through the door. The ladies were kind, the class was a revelation, and afterward I finally understood what people mean when they talk about the glow.

Then I drove to the Wolverine Publick House in old town Fort Collins, my usual writing spot when I'm here, where they sold me the most delicious granola bowl I've ever eaten. I headed upstairs to the long, tabled room where I write when I'm in town.

Across from me sat a young man with an open face and a Bible. He introduced himself, and within minutes we'd veered into philosophical theology and the winding path that had landed him here as a pastor at a small Anglican church. It was the kind of conversation that sneaks up on you — one moment you're making small talk, and the next someone is saying something that rearranges a small piece of your interior furniture. A wink from God that He sees me doing the work.

Then I met Steve and Franci, who were hanging Steve's artwork on the walls of the long room while half a dozen writers tapped away at their laptops. Steve introduced Franci as his first wife, which told me immediately he was just my sort. I complimented Franci on her red pepper earrings, and she promptly took them off and gave them to me.

So I told her we had to trade.

I gave Franci my everyday earrings. The ones that have been discontinued by the company that makes them. The ones I found in a little shop in Antigua, years after I'd given up hope of ever finding them again. The best earrings I've ever owned.

I gave them away without blinking to a woman I'd just met. Because Franci was so filled with love and joy about her husband, the artist, about her life, with that husband, about life in general that meeting her felt like a gift. One I'll carry with me everywhere I go.

Along with her red pepper earrings.

Magic.