Most mornings, my hands work just fine.  I raise my arms before my feet hit the floor. I stretch the jangled nerves and the tight muscles.  I shake my fingers.  When my brain engages, I struggle vertical and start my day.

Some days, like this day, my hands hang limp.  They cannot grasp or grip.  They will not function.  Anything I try to hold falls away.  This phenomenon began years and years ago; and persists to this day.  The toothbrush, the cell phone, the coffee mug — on days such as today, all of these challenge me.  Defy me.  Elude me.

Years ago, a doctor told me to make sure I sleep with my arms extended to avoid both neurological glitches like the limp-hand syndrome and to ward off blood clots.  I’ve tried, believe me.  But the human body naturally resolves itself in the protective fetal curl.

This morning, I  stared at my hands in dismay.  I’m used to their inconsistent reliability but for some reason, every once in a while, it overwhelms me.  Today I push back the resentment, the complaint, the bitterness.  These hands serve me well enough most days.  I remind myself that an hour or so after waking, they will settle into their usual capacity — not great, but functional.  I force myself to shake off the irritation and lean my shoulder against the wall as I descend the stairs.  Then I get online to find some inspiration.  I realize life is not  a competition.  I do not live in the world of grass-is-always-greener-somewhere-else and that I can only value what I have by finding somebody else’s brown and dying lawn.

But once in a while, it helps to see that some folks rise above their infirmities with grace and valor.  I scroll through the images which I find, and realize that I can keep going.  I can persevere.

It’s the twenty-eighth day of the thirty-first month of My [Never-Ending]  Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.