I wrote about Orange, Texas--but that fizzled. I’m tired of hurricane and disaster processing and making solemn intonations about darkness and light. No matter how spiritual I can make it sound.

I had a big fat needle shoved into my shoulder yesterday afternoon. I told them at least they could disguise it in a Scooby-Doo costume or something--but no one laughed--and they still waved it about in front of me. It was sort of funny--one more surprise assault.

But I also got a surprise phone call, and learned of aunts I never met who sought out adventure, new relationships, aunts who danced, who had a drive for life.

And maybe flying along the interstate past Orange, Texas in awe of the broken pines and roofs and utility poles is less about the disaster that everybody knows about but more about the adventure of the flying past. That I have choices about disaster zones and adventure zones. Choices about relaxation zones, work zones, and retreats. That having responsibilities and unhappy situations is not the same thing as being stuck. That I have wheels and curiosity and the two of them will carry me far.