It is just a flesh wound

The skies have transformed from azure blue with bright white clouds to ominous black clouds burdened with rain (it is pouring). Thunder rumbles, cracks and booms. So much for my planned afternoon of reading (and with any luck, writing) on the swing, instead the dim light drags down my eyelids making a nap seem like a really good idea.

I have been hobbling around trying to keep my left big toe from getting any dirt on it. Yesterday I gashed my toe on an errant finishing nail that had popped out from the baseboard trim in the camper. Ouch. Blood poured - which I think is a good thing as it washes any dirt away - before I could staunch the flow enough to hobble back to the house where I could properly minister the infraction. I've been babying my foot to keep it clean - so far, so good, no infection, it doesn't hurt at all - but wearing socks when the humidex is at 38C is miserable - how long till I can wear sandals, walk barefoot in the park, or wade in the less than clean Lake Ontario? I don't want to say miserable because having a real wound would be terrible, this is just a minor inconvenience which at first glance seemed heinous (all that blood freaked me out), but it is really 'just a flesh wound'.

It is all very well to copy what one sees, but it is far better to draw what one now only sees in one's memory. That is a transformation in which imagination collaborates with memory. ~Edgar Degas