I am now a girl with a hula hoop. I wouldn't go so far as to call myself a hooper, but I'd be happy to get there. I've been spinning inside summer; making the most of the sunshine and extended daylight with sandy feet, endless glasses of ginger-coconut iced tea on the front steps, a magazine in hand and the sounds of Mumford & Sons wafting through the screen door.
There's an emotional whirling happening too. We've been readying a home to sell. A charming house we bought when we first arrived in Los Angeles six years ago. It is time to let it go. Being there shuffles me into the deck of the past somewhere between nostalgia and an emotion yet unidentified. I am sitting with it, letting it surface with teary eyes. I'm taking those cleansing breaths that are supposed to alleviate moments of anxiety. I suspect I've touched on shards of loss that have been smoothed over by time but are still razory when pressed closely into the palm of your hand. This home holds memories of three loved ones who lived nearby and have since departed. It holds memories of the dalmatian that rocked our world. It holds memories of visits with my mother who is no longer able to travel. I recognize we hold these memories too, that they will not be lost. At about the same time we moved here I found the words of Pema Chodron, encouraging me to learn to welcome the present moment as though I had invited it. This has been my practice. Sometimes I forget but then, like razory shards of loss, I remember.