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The Workshop

I’m playing a game with Danielle Donders and Christine Hennbury. Danielle takes a picture and sends it round and Christine writes a short story about it. They invited others to play with them and of course I joined in! Go check it out at Danielle’s blog and join us :) This is what I wrote this week.

Today, I went back to my workshop for the first time since the accident. My joy begins even before I open the door. The smell of turpentine and oil greet me from within. I push the squeaky door open with my shoulder and reflect on the irony. But I’m a wood person, and these squeaky hinges are metal. A light breeze and the sounds of birds chirping come through the still-opened window. Everything is right where I left it. My heart, as always, fills to the rim. It’s like coming home after a long trip. I look at the work table and can feel the grooves and bumps in my fingertips. I can feel the weight of the hammer. The way the chisel pulls my hand, showing me the creation that lies within the log. The resistance of a board when I use the saw. These tools were once extensions of my hands. They allowed me to be who I am. To carve out my life in wood.

I look at the new extensions of my arms, the hooks that replace my hands, with disgust.

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