Dear friend,
The sky is blue with puffy white clouds, the breezy wind is blowing and making a nice sound through the trees and fields, and the spring flowers continue to bloom and blossom.
And I'm sick.
Do I have the flu? No. Congestion? No. A sore throat? Nope, not even a sore throat.
Then how am I sick, you ask with a perplexed look on your face.
Well, I'll tell you.
I'm homesick.
Yes, it's true. Rachel sent me a great article about students who study abroad. It informs the reader that there are charted ups and downs that happen in the emotions and mentalities of young people who move to a different country for a while. According to it, I'm heading down for a low point. I'll tell you how it's happening:
I woke up early this morning, as I have done for the past few mornings, to breakfast myself and the horses. I didn't have a lot to do for the horses, because I'd put everything together that I could for them last night, and all I had to do was put in a few things that have to wait to the last minute, mix them up (with my hands, of course), and distribute them. I was less prepared for myself, however, and was out of breakfast food. So I decided to open a can of beans. (Please remember I'm not living with Arna and Peter this week--I'm on my own, and when the opportunity provides itself, I hopelessly still live like a college student.)
Once I got the can opener positioned and ready, I realized it was broken. While it would pinch the can just fine and even puncture it slightly and the thing you turn turned obligingly, the gear on the other side of it wouldn't turn with it. I might have given up, had there been other food. But I'd been looking forward to those beans (yes, I know, I'm strange), so I decided to be resourceful and try to open the can, anyway. The can opener could still puncture, after all!
So I started on it. I kept pinching the handles together and moved the opener up and down, up and down, around the can. It worked! At least... it mostly worked. It would only work for maybe a couple inches, then the rim of the can would be too bent out of shape to continue in that section. So I'd move to another section and start again. I'd been doing this process for about a minute when I decided to get a spoon and try to pry part of the cut sections up, so that maybe I could pour out the beans. So I got a spoon and started prying.
This next paragraph is one that you may or may not want to skip over, depending on your stomach. You can skip to the one after it, if you'd like.
Yes. My hand slipped. And as the kinetic energy took my hand towards the can, the pried up part of the lid neatly sliced off part of my index finger's top knuckle. I won't tell you how much skin was left on the sharp edge of the can, but the section missing from my finger was about 7mm by 3mm, and possibly 1 to 1.5mm deep. (That's really deep.)
All I knew at first (before inspecting the damage) was that my right index finger had roughly brushed past a sharp object, and it had the pre-pain sensation. By reflexes, I grabbed it with my left hand and held it tightly, afraid to look at it. Finally I had to (because not only did I need to see it, I was curious), and if there had been anyone around with whom I felt comfortable, I would have started freaking out and let them handle everything. But I was alone, and everyone else on the property (who are nice, but I don't know very well) were still asleep.
So there I was, standing at the kitchen sink, clutching my finger. I tried to think of what to use to stop the bleeding, but since it wasn't my house, I wasn't sure where to go. I couldn't use the towels because I didn't want to stain them, and the only other absorbent thing to use was toilet paper, but I didn't want to use that either because it might leave particles behind, once removed. So I just stood at the sink, occasionally rinsing my finger, squealing (I would have yelled, but it wasn't my house) at the growing sting (and the experience), trying desperately to not freak out.
Finally, I went to the bathroom, remembering a box of band-aids I'd found before while rummaging for more toilet paper, and tried looking for more first aid supplies. Nothing besides the aforementioned band-aids. I took one and went to the stable, hoping to find a first aid kit there. Still nothing. The owners had taken it with them on their trip with the two horses (understandable).
I rinsed my finger (for the tenth time... it was really bleeding), dried it off as well as I could without leaving any blood on the towel behind, and hurried to get the band-aid on it, tightly. Success! But I wasn't about to celebrate, because I was still trying very valiantly (in vain) to not go into hysterics.
The whole time this process was going on, all I wanted to do was be home as a ten-year-old and have Mom take care of it (with curious siblings either watching or comforting me by telling a story of a girl who once cut her finger and how she got through the ordeal with bravery) and then have something exciting to show Dad when he got home from work. (See? Homesick. And not just for a place, but for an era.)
I felt like a scared little girl, ever so far away from Home, having to deal with a crisis as a grown-up, with a grown-up job still waiting to be done (the horses still remained to be fed). I wanted to call Dad over skype, but that was impractical as I don't have internet in the flat and the battery of my computer is limited. And what could he do for my finger, anyway? He wouldn't be able to bandage it, let alone see it properly. So I did the next best thing and texted Katherine. She advised I call Arna, so I did.
Really, since the cut wasn't bleeding through the band-aid (mighty little piece of plastic!), Arna said it should be fine, and she'd take a look at it once we both got to her house. Good. That's what I needed to hear. I really just needed to hear a mother tell me that it would be okay and that I wasn't going to lose a finger. She didn't say those words, exactly, but her practicality conveyed the same amount of comfort.
I fed the horses (doing everything with my left hand and keeping my right hand up and out of the way to keep it from getting dirty), started some laundry, and then put the three horses out to pasture with the morning helper. Once I cleared the plan of leaving for the morning with one of the family residents (who had just woken up), I packed up my computer and everything I'd need (but forgot my webcam! Ugh!!), and fled to Arna's, still holding my finger up to maybe keep the blood pressure out of it and trying to not freak out. (I did fairly well when I was around the other two this morning at keeping the freaking out at bay, I think, but when I was out of sight and hearing I expressed it as silently and controlled as I could manage.)
Once at Arna's (who hadn't gotten home yet), I made coffee and toast (breakfast!), marched down to my room, plugged in my computer, and let loose of everything through writing this anecdote.
I haven't just exposed a deep part of my finger, though. This experience has rudely cut deeply into--I don't know what to call it... maybe it's my heart?--as well. For the past month I've been learning how to relax and enjoy life again at a truer level and actually live at a home with parental figures. Here, I'm fed, I'm cared for, and while I'm still an adult and am treated as one, I rely on Peter and Arna a lot for wisdom and knowledge as I'm learning a new place and a new way to get around, which really plunges me back, in some ways, into being a child. Cutting my finger provided the vulnerable opportunity for all of this to come to the surface to be seen. Does that make sense? I hope it does, because that's the only way I can think to express it.
Now that everything is all written out and processed, I suppose I'm a bit grateful for the accident. I've known the humor in it from the start (come on... I cut my finger and went into hysterics. It's funny... I get that) and I'm sure I'll laugh about it later. But for now I'll stay in this contemplative state and enjoy the calmness that comes with it. Though I'm still really looking forward to Arna properly wrapping my finger, and not so much to having to wear a glove at work for the next few days. Oh well. Healing takes time, no matter what good the wound inflicts.
Thanks for reading, and may a peace that reminds you of precious childhood envelop you with a hug, and may you know His Name as Comfortor.
Sincerely,
Sarah
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