You Need Rest and To Go Easy

The story centers on a man named Lyle, who led a quiet, solitary life by the edge of a vast forest. Lyle was known for his steady hands; he was a woodcarver, creating intricate pieces that the townsfolk admired. But over time, something began to change. It started subtly, with aches he attributed to long hours of carving. Yet, the discomfort grew until his fingers began to show signs of splitting in the delicate skin between the knuckles.

At first, the skin cracked just slightly, but over weeks, the fissures deepened, and a dark line began to spread down the middle of each finger. The darkening looked like bruises at first, but then the skin took on a dry, charcoal-like hue. He worried it was some kind of infection, but it never spread beyond his hands.

Lyle tried ignoring it, chalking it up to the cold weather or his advancing age. But his hands, the very tools of his trade, seemed to be rejecting his craft. Worse still, he felt a creeping unease—an inexplicable heaviness pressing down on him each day. His carving slowed, and as his income dwindled, so did his peace of mind. He couldn’t afford to stop, but every attempt to continue brought pain, not just physically but in the growing weight on his chest.

Finally, he sought out Anna, an old friend and healer who lived in the village. She took one look at his hands and listened to his story, nodding thoughtfully. "You’re carrying too much, Lyle," she said softly. “Your body is trying to tell you something.”

Anna encouraged Lyle to take breaks, but more than that, she urged him to address the stress he had been ignoring for years—the pressures of his work, his self-imposed solitude, the sadness he had buried long ago. She prepared a balm of aloe, chamomile, and eucalyptus oils to soothe the cracked skin, and she taught him breathing exercises to calm his mind.

Following her advice, Lyle began to spend his mornings meditating by a creek that ran near his home. With time, he let his hands rest, massaging them gently with Anna’s balm each day. The dark lines faded slowly, as did the cracks. Each healed split was a reminder to honor his limits, to find balance between his work and well-being.

In the end, Lyle returned to his craft with a different approach. He worked fewer hours, but his creations grew richer in detail and warmth. The splitting never returned, and he learned that by caring for himself, his hands—and his heart—could truly heal.