Every Hoop Has a Beginning, Doesn’t It? Part 5
Because I lived in Portland, Oregon, I didn’t have to go far to find a hoop maker. I crossed the bridge and wound my way up the west hills to find the apartment complexes the directions had lead me. Like I was going to miss Santa if I didn’t hurry, I ran out of the car and headed up the steps of the small complex. Around the corner and down a long hallway, I saw my red hoop leaning against the tan siding. It wasn’t a fire-engine red that would have annoyed me, but a muted red that looked almost brown, the color of earth. Covered in plastic wrap, my beautiful 42 inch hoop was waiting for me to bring it to life.
I carried the hoop to the car and maneuvered it so it would fit in the hatchback. I got it to stand upright in the backseat. I watched the hoop all the way home from my rear view mirror. Like a mother checking on her newborn in the car seat, I turned around to put my hand on the hoop when I was at a stoplight.
I parked the car in my driveway, took my red hoop into the garage, closed the door, and didn’t come out for two hours. I held the hoop in my arms, lifting it as if I could figure out the exact weight. I lifted it with one hand, both hands and each of my fingers. I pushed the hoop around my waist, and easily I found my flow.