If I had been reading my own biography, it would have been expected. Considering how much I ask of my right wrist, at sixty two there are bound to be signs of wear. Guitar playing has been part of my routine since eighth grade, as has sewing. The latter has racheted up since the twins reached high school, with a hundred finished projects each year. 

 

I went to an acupuncturist, with minor results. I've used arnica, and a compression glove. I am on my second brace, which does provide relief. It fascinates me that the discomfort does not seem to be transferred to the practitioner, or the device on my hand. It is a mystery where it ends up.

 

There are modifications in my routine. I no longer open new jars, handing them off to any one of the younger eaters in the crowd. At the keyboard, or hefting suitcases down the stairs, I look for ways to be gentle. The reality is I want this joint to keep performing into my seventies. There is fabric waiting on my shelves. And they tell me I can't take it with me.

 

The other day we sat down with a couple who are stepping into a mentoring relationship. Their marriage is not a young one, but rather has been a shelter for a brood of kids, and a blessing to many who know them. But there are signs of wear, and of pain. They are receptive to support. 

 

What amazes me, is that when we begin to look for outside strength, it usually shows up. Plus there is no indication that those offering it take on any released difficulties as their own.