Margaret and I went to Thirroul Beach today at 10 a.m. to juggle. We were the only faithful there I can't believe the beach wasn't thronged on a cold, wet, windy day with dozens, if not hundreds, of fervid jugglers. But no.
Nevertheless, we celebrated, as we had sworn to do. After insisting she couldn't juggle, Margaret ended up learning the very basics faster than I had. (Although it must be said that I was self-taught, which may have slowed me down even more than my chronic awkwardness would have anyway.)
Juggling is good for the writer (me). It's good for the actor (Margaret). It's good for the mom, and for the daughter. It's good for the middle-aged, and the young. And I'm planning on finding out whether it's good for the elderly.
Juggle, everybody, juggle!*
*Strictly speaking, metaphorical juggling (as in, aspects of one's life) isn't exactly what I'm referring to. I'm talking literally throwing things up in the air with a joyous, yet precise, "Whee!"