I cannot tell you how glorious the weather is here today and has been for a few days. I've got the hot tub warming up. I'm struck by these little moments of grace that crop up unexpectedly.
The other day at work, we were having a discussion on of all things: beans. An older, almost elfin, gentleman who works in the cafe says "I don't like the way you Cubans make red beans." I suspect strongly he's Mexican which of course explains it. But as he continues, "I once spent a year in Cuba with the circus." And I know he's telling the truth, at least I know he once juggled with the circus. He still has that really erect bearing of an acrobat or drill sergeant. "Yes," he says, "in 1953, the best year of my life. I was in my prime then, and the place was a lot of fun."
Or I'm driving home today from Downtown when a man crosses the street in front of me. For a minute, I think he might be the Mexican hobo who frequents the area and makes me crazy because he tarnishes the Anglo impression of Mexicans, all of those I know being hardworking types. The pale blue striped polo co-ordinates with the shorts, but something about him spells "homeless," maybe it's the mochilla over his shoulder. Can his hair have gotten that white, I'm pondering, when I realize it's not him. At that very moment, the gentleman in question stops in midtraverse, looks at me, and winks. Then he turns and proceeds on his way with nary a look behind. Something significant has happened here. Something with no words, no intellect, just grace.