Here's the Hopeful Part

Although I'm a gentile, the Jewish holidays–which came and went this past month–always mean so much to me. I love the occurrence of a new year each fall. I'm already sensing a year of change.

So...I'm on the paddle tennis court this past weekend (see February 2015's post about this super-fun, yet relatively bizarre sport), playing as a sub in a match. I don't really know the people I'm with, nor the level at which they play, so I'm a little wary, tentative, mentally frenzied. I'm trying not to make people upset with my tennis-style swings, yet I'm trying to please my newly acquainted partner and win her some points.

The ball comes toward me at a weird angle and I debate going for it, get stuck in my shoes when I finally do, and tumble down to the feeling of an exploding ankle. "Broken," I thought. "Definitely broken" (while gasping loudly).

It's been four days and I still don't have an official diagnosis, but I'm going with "sprain in two or more places." Possibly grade 2. Maybe 3.

If you read the last post before this, you'll know that I am taking a brief sabbatical from event music.

I am also on day #8 of a deep cleanse with a group of ladies who are checking up on each other (surprisingly, I have not surreptitiously gotten a hold of some Green & Black's organic milk chocolate as yet).

And...I've had a few physical challenges this past year.

But wait, there's more...I can't move much due to this grade 4 ankle sprain I've got here.

Here's the Hopeful Part

I've been writing songs again! I've set up the house to be a creative work-and-cook playground. It's a hot mess over here. I'm a hot mess. Dishes like mountains, and ice packs and Arnica. But, I feel alive! There are mandala coloring books and lentil beans galore. Vegan soups and cloud watching. Songs about Ken Kesey; songs about superstitious husbands. These are the 40-somethin'-going-on-seventeen days.

I've heard every Regina Spektor, every Rickie Lee, every Paul Simon, every fork over knife, ever Ted Talk concerning math and puppets...everything Ira Glass has ever said.

So, come. Come for some hot soup.