All that biking in the last few days took its toll, of all things, on my knuckles. Yes, the knuckles. On both hands. Could be that the grip I had on those brakes going down those hills was even tighter than memory serves me. Or, it could be that I am finally working all my stresses out from deep inside to the thinner edges. That is, I started the year with hip pain and pririformis issues, making hiking, let alone walking, a nearly impossible feat for months. Then, when I took up biking, the iron grip of pain moved on from the sacroiliac region up through the thoracic region into the shoulders and neck. I finally worked out all those kinks, with the help of physical therapy and yoga. The legs, I am happy to report, are back in the business of walking, the back pretty loose and the neck turning without a hitch, or without that rusty crack … but oh the hands, now they seem to have locked themselves down and refuse to perform any operations that require them to bend from the joints at the knuckles.
The stress of so much stuff hanging on, literally and metaphorically, the grip perfected by the hands, the last in line for hanging on to it all, as if for dear life … the life of fear and worry, I might add. Such expert hands at holding on to all manner of things invisible, while dropping ordinary objects willy-nilly, make typing difficult. All of which explains why I am about to end this post here and go back to the cup of green tea and the blue silhouette of the distant mountain.