Wounded Fingertips

I have extremely dry skin on my hands and it gets worse in the winter.

They crack and spontaneously bleed (no - I'm not having delusions of stigmata ...) and they hurt.

I moisturize and hydrate and it gets better and worse and better and worse.

The skin on my fingertips gets really bad.

The skin of my right hand middle finger (subtle body trying to tell me something not so subtle?) got so dry and angry it split into a deep cut just below the nail.

It wasn't just deep, but also wide and it hurt.

Blood pooled underneath the nail and brushed the top and sides like a manicure out of a nightmare.

One day when it was especially throbby, I looked at it. I considered putting a band-aid on it, but didn't.

There's too much to do with my fingertips to have them encumbered by a clunky band-aid.

It's also impossible to cover the fingertip properly, and band-aids are kinda gross anyway. Or they get gross fast.

Any time I had to do something with this hand, like type, which is at least 75 percent of every day, I was reminded of this annoying, painful gash.

I inspected it more closely and noticed a piece of fuzz stuck inside. I slid the fuzz out and thought the fuzz might've been dirty and I should probably use an antibacterial in my mini flesh wound so it wouldn't needlessly turn into an infected mess.

Instead, I did nothing.

Today I notice the pain has subsided.

The opening is noticeably more narrow. Less pink and vulnerable. The skin on the sides calloused and slightly yellow. My dermis must've been working furiously to protect my fingertip from further insult.

It makes me extrapolate to other areas of my life (extrapolate ...I love to crack myself up ...).

I had a wound and did nothing to fix it, but didn't have to. My skin cells have a mind of their own. All I had to do was not interfere with the inherent wisdom of my body.

Is it true of other things as well?

Does it mean I can I stop worrying about things I can't control because someone else is in charge anyway and everything's gonna be alright now?

Does it mean if I don't attend to my vulnerabilities I'll become one giant, human callous?

Does it mean I should say what I need to say, even if it's, "fuck off, dickhead asshole, I can't stand you"?

Does it mean I need to understand and find a strategy for managing why I want to tell people to fuck off so badly and often?

I know you have your take on my dry, bloody, horror movie hands.

Please share - - I'd love me some free psychoanalysis.

And share stories of your own wounds - flesh, subtle or otherwise.

Trust me - writing it out is cathartic and this blog isn't just for me, it's for all us real-world yogis =)