A bloody tale

It's a rare week I don't bleed enough to require at least a minute or two of attention. Part of this is diving into stuff I don't know much about, part due to inattention, and part because I use a lot of sharp things.

If it weren't for bones, I'd have sliced off just about all my digits by now.

All bleeding eventually stops...

I am OK with blood--mine, yours, pretty much anyone's now. Years of working in a Trauma Center will do that.  Pretty amazing stuff, and we replace it fairly quickly, so unless the ceiling's turning red, I don't get too excited.


I planted a few peas yesterday. The ground is workable but cold, cold enough to numb my hands, the kind of cold where bleeding is seen before felt. (I do not wear gloves, add that to my list of why I bleed a lot.) My hands were covered with good loam, and after a quick inspection, no blood noted.

As I washed my hands, the red-brown dirt swirled in the sink, indistinguishable from the hundreds, maybe thousands of times I have washed my blood and others into sinks.

The peas I plant will grow, I have that much faith. I also have sunlight, water, and carbon dioxide, so my faith lies couched in the material universe.

We are of earth and blood.
Spring is here, again, and most of us who saw the last solstice are still here, again, too.

We do not bleed enough in our classrooms....