I think each individual human brain naturally gravitates to whatever activity promotes its optimal organization; in my case, this is writing. So, with typing forbidden, and even handwriting limited by numbness and pain, my mind isn’t quite organized. My mind is like a hapless foreigner to me: if I yell at it as though it were it were deaf or stupid, maybe it will come to understand English. I feel a bit like a puddle on a level floor, without momentum to flow toward the sump.
Normally I would not have music playing; it interferes with my mechanisms of mental organization. But for now, Rachmaninov’s Vespers in our new boombox provides commiseration and urges organization.
So many times I was ready to give up my CDs for lunch money, because they were all in my computer. I’m so glad now that I kept them. Our powered speakers died, and our portable CD player died, so we got the boombox. It’s amazing the great sound you get for $60 these days, and it plays all types of CDs, including MP3s. Just to play a CD in my computer takes several clicks. I have to select iTunes or WMP or some other option. Too many options in every detail of life have proven debilitating.
I don’t know whether the “overuse” injury I have will fully heal. Addison’s disease, with its compromised cortisol and glycogen, could complicate healing and may contribute to chronic muscle weakness. I hope to learn more about this from my endocrinologist next month.
If I am not careful with the “overuse” condition, it can become carpal tunnels, or simply linger. But that threat pales in the face of the greater threat: that of losing mental organization. Reading produces no output to hold me accountable the way writing does. Reading is not a work product. Only writing keeps me informed that cunning processes have not purloined my language and logic neurons.
I would prefer an unperturbed routine. I’m less motivated than grumpy at interruptions that compel changes. As for options, it seems I’m either injured by clicking overlong options menus, or limited by my lack of options.
All in all, life proceeds far more nicely than I deserve. I have a patient husband to type this, and perhaps, patient readers to read it. And postcards are arriving–thank you! Truly, “The stream of God is full of water. . . .” (Psalm 65:9)