Peony

Typing remains slow and frustrating. Perhaps not the best time to start a blog.

This difficulty began on Friday. I went into the garden early to beat the heat. Summer's switch was turned on early this year. 90s and high humidity already. After braiding some of the fading daffodil stems as my mother-in-law suggested, I decided to do some deadheading for a change of pace. Half way through pruning one of the peonies, I cut the edge of my pinkie with the garden shears. Odd that I didn't cry out, but instinctively I must have known such energy would be fruitless since there was no one around. I put the bleeding finger into my mouth and ran inside.

The wound continued to bleed after cleaning it and putting pressure on it. My husband returned from his trip around 2 and examined the damage. He confirmed my suspicion; while the wound was bad it wasn't the type that could be stitched. Essentially I trimmed some flesh from the finger. There was nothing to suture together. Bleeding continued into the night and I began to panic. Would the bleeding ever stop? Would I remain without a chunk of my finger? Would this pulsing pain running through my hand end?

The next day the bleeding stopped and by Sunday the wound started to scab over. There is some pain, it's difficult to type (I'm getting very familiar with the backspace key), and as my husband says, "It ain't pretty," but the finger is healing. And I'm humbled once again by the work my body does. Yes, healing is slower and less efficient than when I was younger, but this body still surprises me with its power. It's hard to think that it will not always be so.

I'm hesitant to finish deadheading the peonies. Perhaps I should let them heal their own bodies, let the dried petals paper the garden bed, let the stems scab over, let scars form to remember the painful blooms.