I’m up early today. No, not because of the eager anticipation of yet another scintillating cup of rhubarb tea. Nor is it because of the alluring wonder about new ways to cook an egg this morning.
It’s the fire in my right hand that owns my senses. Lucky for me, I have a background of medical knowledge, so my mind is not racing with unnecessary fears and concerns about endless hypothetical possibilities. I recognize carpal tunnel syndrome for what it is. And the pulsating tightness in my finger represents the festering splinter from yesterday’s effort.
The blame sits squarely on the shoulders of produce. The sheer volume of foodstuffs is squeezing us out of house and home, so I have felt compelled over the past days to mitigate this pumpkin-invasion by building a storage shed. And with frost looming, and with moose in full rut, time is of the essence.
So I have been taking matters in my own hands, contributing to Suzanne’s cause divergently. A frenzy of saws with noble intent. A flurry of nails and boards, all single-mindedly set on seeing this project through.
And the hand symptoms, with a tincture of time, will dissipate. The mind will forget. Only the shed and its contents will remain.