Some kinds of fun are sacred. Like the fun you feel when a baby smiles at you. Or the fun of seeing a rainbow in a puddle. Or the fun of a first kiss and the more fun of a second. They are moments that you hold close to you, that cherish you. Many of them are fragile, temporary, like a silence you share with a gathering of meditators, or a two-year-old. Some you greet with awe, like the fearsome thrill of thunder, like the deeply silent darkness of the dark, like the ringing of a chime. Some are too intimate to share, like the fun of a baby’s touch, or a lover’s, or hummingbird’s.
Sacred fun. Fun that has become holy. Sanctified fun that you carry with you like the penny you put on a trolley track, like the memory of something so deeply fun that you and all those who made that memory with you speak of it as they would speak of something almost holy.
Like the time you all peed into the Grand Canyon.
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