Change

As I finished my shower this morning, wincing in anticipation that my right hand continues to feel sore and weak, I made to wring out my washcloth. And to my delight, I realized that the strength is already returning to the hand that was bitten less than 72 hours ago by an adult male German Shepherd that belongs to a long-time friend. That frightening event, another story that doesn’t really need to be retold, is behind me. The good news is that I am healing.

As I continued to get ready for my first day of feeling stronger and ready for the challenges ahead of me on this fall visit to my Texas home, I picked up the deodorant spray—and bam—my right forefinger pushed the plunger. I am still a little compromised, but then guess what, my right hand is nimbly pressing without pause the keys on this keyboard. I am so blessed.

Give thanks for the things we take for granted—the things we take for granted, like gripping the handle of the front door, wrapping our hands around the broom handle to sweep up the mass of bugs that have built up on the floor of a barn house during three months of absence, the prospect of soon immersing both our hands in the dish water, the ability to cup a pencil in our dominant hand and write a shopping list, the joy of clapping our hands in response to, well, joy.

I’m looking out the door leading into the place in this barn that I call an office, where lots of treasure, and lots of wonderful books, along with my computer printer—and for the winter a small wood-burning stove—live without thought of compromise, even when I am absent. An adult male cardinal pecks at the seeds in the grass just outside the door. Maybe he’s the same one that was just perched on a blooming limb of the Desert Willow planted farther over, just east of the barbed wire fence. I have noticed that the cardinals are indeed in residence of the somewhat weary summer garden that fronts my barn home. A summer that I am told began with ample rains has given way to the annual cycle of triple-digit days and infrequent showers.

We are thirsty, and while I can’t speak for anyone else, I am optimistic that soon the ground and flora will smile as fall showers make a difference. There will be a bounce in our step, and the conversation will shift, even if only slightly. I smile at the prospect of putting on my buckskin gloves, grabbing the rake, the pruners, the loppers, and with both hands firmly fixed on the handles of the wheelbarrow that I haven’t pushed forward since spring, do some fall gardening. Everything has changed, but then it hasn’t. My eyes and ears and spirit are ready.

Change—Normangee, Texas (September 5, 2010)
R. Harold Hollis