Took in Dr Strange yesterday. You know, the newest movie-fication of the Marvel universe. I enjoyed it. Villainous villains, reluctant hero, outstanding visual effects, just enough comic relief to offset the general horror. But what struck me and is still hanging with me a bit, is the fact that our hero's hands were injured. His hands. Shown shaking and scarred and struggling to do what they used to do without his conscious thought. How frightful and Frankensteinish they appeared post-surgery in their slings, fingers studded with steel pins. How his frustration exploded into anger as he struggled through a physical therapy session. I certainly wasn't a brilliant neurosurgeon prior to my workplace injury. But I used to do beadwork and plink a little on my guitar. I could type speedily without having to look at the keys to direct my uncooperative fingers to the letter that I require. I was an expert seamstress. Like Dr Strange, I eventually had to look within and figure out how to get on with my life with my compromised hands. I had to lose the self-pity and stop asking why me. When told by the demonic Dormammu that it will be painful, Dr Strange responds that pain is an old friend. I feel like pain is more of an annoying constant companion than friend. I try to use my daily allotment of spoons wisely. And I find joy in the moments of most days. It would be pretty cool to have an animated red cape, though. When the laundry room is more organized I may have to fire up the sewing machine and invest a week's worth of spoons in making that happen. Meanwhile, I'm changing the wifi password to shamballa.