Hands and feet.

But mostly the hands. That's what we worked on last night. We keep uncovering old griefs, new fears, and metaphors I didn't know I contained. Some weeks the massage is all about biomechanics. Other weeks we are chasing my marbles.

I cried readily last night. And then I came home and sobbed as I read my French BOM aloud. And it wasn't even one of those parts where one of my spiritual heroes dies. Just verse after verse of badly and noisily enunciated French and buckets of tears, to the point where only Heaven could have made any sense of it.

But I slept. (Well. And long.) And my ankles are only faintly red this morning, and barely swollen. The healing process continues.

I took a gift card that I found in Beloved's desk and have been lugging around for several months, and I bought new athletic shoes on my way home from work. The old shoes are on a shelf in my closet, in case a dirty, nasty job comes up in the next few months. I remember reading about a guy who kept three pairs in rotation: the new ones, last year's pair, and the year before that's. A new pair every year, and always the right shoe for the job.

Seems like a sensible plan to me. And in the meantime I am simply rejoicing at having a much better pair of shoes that cost me less out of pocket than the cheap ones I bought last year, when our money was going for co-payments.

I am so blessed. Scattered marbles and all.