I hurt my arm. I saw a massage therapist and applied kinesiologist. I iced. I rested. I stretched. I iced/heated. I waited. For weeks. And it feels better.
But never as good as it did before I hurt it, you know? Ah aging. Yay.
I had to stop weaving for a while of course. And stop the other fun things. Then I could start again, but just for little bits of time. I’d go in to weave, and here come Matthew, ten minutes later.
“Are you hurting yourself?” My weaving-knitting-dyeing-spinning self rolls her eyes. But truly, he is right, and I close down the lights and sulk back inside.
So the beautiful weaving, she is making progress. She starts out very narrow and black, because, of course, that was my life before I got sober. It was narrow and black, with shades of grey.
She widens out, because my thinking did have to get broader before I got sober. I’d had a panic attack, and went to a psychiatrist for help. Over that first year, he helped me to broaden my thinking, and to begin to be honest with myself.
And then, well, other things happened. There was light and joy, and then there was blackness again. So the weaving continues.