I walk the several blocks from my place of employment to the hospital where George lies unintelligible and profoundly bruised.  I found him days before when his sweet son, my friend, could not reach him by phone.  George lay crumpled naked and vulnerable in his bathtub after suffering a stroke.  I kneeled by the bathtub and held his hand until the emergency squad arrived.  "Help is on the way, Geroge; help is on the way."  Tears stream down my face.  I can't believe my brilliant friend has met the confluence we all dread--old age and the loss of normalcy.

"God, make a fresh start in me, shape a Genesis week from the chaos of my life."~Psalm 51:15

A rough week--thrown off the life carousel by the pretty painted pony. The merry-go-round rotations whirling too fast--a jangle of stress, the organ music no longer melodic, but sounding strident and dissonant.

I land with a thud--not feeling well physically, spiritually or psychologically.  An outbreak of acne. I am stumbling at work, feeling overwhelmed--too many tasks and not enough energy--insufficient depth to tackle the stack of expectations sitting before me--discouragement welling in my heart regarding the role I love most as writer artist.  No book sales since June.  And all that money spent to have some sort of platform online.  Too many other books.  A sea of books.  A mountain of books.

She has always made me laugh--this daughter of mine--her spirit the exact opposite of melancholy.  Even as a baby she was easy to be with.  She didn't cry much. Often, upon waking, I would go to her and there in the morning light she would stand, her baby hands grasping the side of her crib, bouncing and singing a song from some secret, sacred place of innocence--those mother moments that bring joy indescribable.

The years pass.  A blur sometimes with all of life's bittersweetness.  The pain.  The delight.  And all along this frothy,phosphorescent trajectory, my daughter has sung and turned her face to heaven.  And because she has looked upward to the One who knows her best, she has carried many people along with her in this wake of love, grace and joy--peers, children, family--and now possbily the most important, this darling husband to be, her beloved.  

I live near a tidal creek, and that body of brackish water is often a destination when I walk.  Some days the creek is so still I see rose-colored bands of the sunrise threaded through its glossy surface.  Other days, often at twilight, the waters are rippling with life--arctic white egrets spear fish in the shallows at low tide and minute crabs scurry away from my footsteps as I approach the great oak that hugs the creek's bank. 

That day I leaned against the ancient tree, weary from the day.  So many cares.  I was tired from a ten-hour day.  I'd almost stayed on the couch watching Dr. Phil instead of getting outside. But I'd pulled myself off the couch knowing it was better to move. I kept telling myself, "You always feel better after you move."

A friend told me recently she'd learned to hula hoop--a pink hula hoop she'd taken to her back porch and practiced until she was able to keep it from clattering to the ground.  "What possessed you?"  I was thoroughly intrigued.  I'd tried to learn years ago, but had given up.  She answered, "It's about letting your body lean into the motion of the hoop."  "Buy why now?" I asked.  "Well," she said, "My life is chaotic.  I'm not entirely happy, and there was just something so inviting about that large, bright, pink hoop in the Rite Aid that seemed fun. I bought it on a whim, and now I hula hoop every night."