It’s halfway through the year, but more than a year since I butchered my left pointer finger. I caught it in a  spinning knife—an immersion blender is what they are called.

I was so horrified, I wrapped it in a bandadge as quickly as I could. It bled a LOT. Since I could move it, I chose to let that be enough.

it hurt a lot too.  Four deep scars are now part of my fingerprint. It was numb, and then it would hurt sometimes. I massaged it to try to get it to come back to life and spend hours worrying that I had done serious damage.

Being the stubborn woman I am, I learned to do what I needed or wanted to do by using other fingers. That finger was clumsy, so I started making new habits to accommodate how things seemed to work.

I got used to doing things in a different way. I found new ways of fastening necklaces.

I found other ways to play the piano. 

I wanted to sing and play. I had my goal to record 100 new songs.  And I found a way to make it happen. I am now at 112.

I cut the finger in June of 2025. And I found a way around it.

That was a year ago, and I’m pleased with what I did. I didn’t let a setback stop me.

And my finger has gotten a lot better, It’s not as clumsy or  painful.

I am seeing that my workarounds are now looking like bad habits. It that finger clumsy from the injury?

or am I clumsy because I stopped using it and now my finger is weak and stiff?

I had a good reason for changing how I used my hand. It seems like that reason remains in my habits but not in its essence.

I created a no-go zone that has lasted longer than the fence did.

What could I do now that I thought I couldn’t?

I’m going to go find out.

I am recording the audio files for the handbook I just published. This is the fifth book I’ve published, but the first one I’ve made into an audiobook.
When I published my first book 15 years ago, the new format choice was making sure it was an ebook. I got that published almost at the same time.
The current way to consume books is by listening. I understand. I have the habit of listening to books as I move around. I want to give my readers an audiobook in my own voice.
I have the equipment, and most of the skills to do that. To get the sound right, I drape a blanket over my head and microphone, reading in a level tone to get the audio quality just right.

I have worked hard on each of my books. This last one took a lot longer than I meant it to. With all the cancer and surgeries in the middle, I paused on getting it published. Then I through all caution out the window and passed go without collecting 200 dollars.
What that means is I didn’t do the quality check of hiring an editor to verify that the text was right. I have always been so careful of that, but not this time.

And unlike the other books, no one had come back to me to point out mistakes. I felt safe and shrugged that the first pass was good enough.
I am reading the chapters out loud. Those good enough chapters are showing my failings in naked embarrassing contrast.
Did I forget a period? AGAIN?
Mortified, I make corrections in my manuscript to read aloud. What is my error tolerance?

I have lowered my standards. Yet, this book is my most popular. But I rushed it to press without my usual attention to detail.
And now I see what I missed. That my readers have been forgiving.
I’m trying to forgive myself.
What is the balance between perfecting and presenting?
I’m happy with how my book has been received. And I’m not happy with its obvious and basic flaws.
And yet the book was so well received even with its flaws, I have to consider that good enough can be welcome when there is nothing else fill that need.
That’s what I’m telling myself. Done is better than perfect. That’s good because I can get it done and I’m not sure I’ll ever get it perfect.
Still I feel like I have my shoes untied. I’m going to update the book with my corrections after I finish the recordings.

Immersive language learning is the best way to learn. I was in Russia as a nineteen year old, desperate to make friends and get away from the tiny apartment where my family lived. I had to learn the language so I could have converations which meant friends.

I practiced the alphabet on the plane over, I was nowhere near skilled enough to have a conversation. But that immersion thing helped. I spoke to strangers and studied every day and night and got closer eery day.

I did make some friends—at first people who knew English. As I tried to practice speaking Russian, that translation dictionary came out to help me find the right word. And conversation stopped as I flipped pages to find the meaning.

After time I got just enough vocabulary to string together a basic conversation.

Barely.

with my goal of leaving my home and making friends, I could visit other people’s houses and have a chat. But if I wanted the conversation to flow, I had to be the one talking.

If I let the other people  speak, I could never be sure of what would come out of their mouths. I could be sure that I would understand the words I was speaking.

It was risky to let new words in, otherwise, we’d be back to that vibe-killind dictionary.

I’m not proud of my choice. It was intentional to limit the language learning in order to get a chance to use the language.

We had a lot of enjoyable conversations, my new Russian friends. I was very fluent in the words surrounding preparing tea. A lot of companionable things can be said without using complicated words.

It would take me quite a while to get that fluent in Russian again, but I have learned to invert that strategy in my conversations.

I know my life, I lived it. BUt when I start conversations with new friends, I avoid talking about my life. I choose carefully which pieces to introduce into the conversation, because I want the keep the conversation going.  I don’t’ want to get stuck on old news, flipping the pages of the unchanging dictionary of my life.

What is in your story? Do you know something I could use? Something I could chew on and ponder?

I’ll tell my stories—I’ve published books about them. More important to me is knowing something new. I want to keep the flow rolling.

The alarm wakes me before the sun rises. Working east coast hours I get ready to meet my day. I gather my bible and journal to sit on my patio. I would be cold if I didn’t have slippers and my warm robe.

I flip on the lights so I can see to read, and I also light the candle that is next to my chair. The aroma and flickering flame adds to my pleasure.

The dark sky hovers over the mostly imperceptible hum of the suburbs. I am still groggy so my mind is awkward with the sentences and phrases of the chapter of the morning. I rub my eyes, shake my head and scan the words again.

Ancient words familiar to me, still gleaming with immediate relevance. I look over at my candle to marvel and ponder.

My eyes look up at the sky. Darkness is slowly fading. Where I sit, dawn is not cracking. It spreads like incense.

I turn back to the verse. My communion with scripture in the air of the dawn is not solitary. Fine-tuned to light, birds begin to fly and extemporize. Power poles hold the wires and the wires hold the bird. At least the birds that want to held there, for however long it pleases them.

Chirps
Whistles
Trills
Croaks

The morning birds have things to say to each other. They look far and are not concerned with me.

We early birds are not showy. Colors are not needed before the sun gets involved.

Light gets thicker and the excitement grows. Birds flit and talk speak.

I furrow my soul with the chapters, looking to bring order to my chaos.

I can only imagine what those birds are organizing with each other. My hopes and intentions join the birds as we greet the sun with plans.

I blow out my candle with regret every time.

That light switch I gratefully flipped in the dark fades in the light of day. Get started on the everything—clothes, coffee, and meetings for work. I owe it the gratitude of remembrance.