So, once the splint came off, I got back to living. Now, when my doctor told me I could resume regular activity, I don't suppose he meant helping roll up tar paper from a roofing job. And I don't suppose he meant dragging big, heavy plastic tarps about. And I don't suppose he meant using weedwhacker, chainsaw and pruning shears and attacking a much overgrown yard. But these are the things that must be done.
To make the medical profession feel better, I did hire Mr Le and associate to do the whacking, pulling and hauling in the front yard. Ok, half of the front yard. I have a very big front yard! As a writer I don't make enough moolah to pay for more than half of the yard. And forget about the back yard, which is three times the size of the front yard.
But a weird thing is happening as I clear clutter, both inside and out. My mind is clearing. I find myself writing stories in my head. I haven't put anything down on paper yet, but there are fleeting moments of creativity whilst whacking the yard into submission. So, maybe all of this activity is a good thing. Maybe freeing my hand from the splint, the yard from the overgrowth, has freed my muse to once again be thinking of something other than 'how soon can I be free of this wretched splint'.
Hey, Muse, nice to have you back.