The reasons I blog have changed over the years; a main one recently has been because I can't remember what I do. I have indulged in my compulsion to share, as if parts of my life will disappear, as if they never took place, unless recorded here. (And for mild-to-moderate depression, it's good therapy.)
About two weeks ago I knew my arms were much worse, and when the physiotherapist confirm it on my fourth appointment, I finally started to take the matter seriously. I accepted I won't be weaving until I get back from Japan, I won't be able to ready the garden for spring, and most urgently, I shouldn't be typing. It helped (!) that I was in sufficient amount of pain so I had to slow down, and I concentrated on things I could do with less muscle movements. And the exercises she'd given me.
Planning/designing projects has been one, (though nothing I can show you yet); reading has been another, (separate post); and I finally got around to tidying the bookshelf in my stash room. It took six hours during a torrential and thunderous Monday, but I feel as if I shed a few lawyers of old skin, and I'm ready to move on. No books were harmed in the process, but some were downgraded to the study bookshelf, while others were upgraded to the stash room. Three tall piles under the bed have disappeared and are placed in the appropriate areas of the stash room bookshelf.
I feels defragged!
I hadn't intended to go cold turkey on the blog, but that's how it happened, and I learned after about a week I wasn't too concerned about my blogging "duties"; nice to know I didn't take my life that seriously. But I've a few things to report, all in due course.