I have not put thought to pen to paper or thought to fingers to digital screen in more three weeks and I am trying not to be heartsick about it.
This was supposed to be the month of writing explosion! This was supposed to be the month during which I made those fixes to my novel, wrote a new short story, added more poems…
and then the tendons in my right hand quit.
No, they didn’t quit. They. went. on. STRIKE.
I had never before felt the kind of constant debilitating pain and I hope not to feel it again. For a full two weeks, I could not do even the mundane tasks of my life without aid or pain or both.
And yes, this pain, this new piece of my body that has put new limits to work, makes the gray in my hair stand out more. It calls me to attention. My life is not infinite. I am not unbreakable or immortal.
I mean, I always knew that, but now I feel it. And there is a mighty mighty difference between feeling and knowing. Knowing is largely academic. But when you are forced to feel your age, knowing takes on a whole new meaning.
But I can write again. And I can do everything I had always done before. I just need to take care. Rest more often. And revel in the fact that I might be slowing down and tendons might be breaking down, but I am not broken.