I was thinking about how much hands, of themselves, tell a story. I remember looking down at my own small hands in Kindergarten to see them for how little they really were: plump, tiny, and - well, perfectly five years old.
Now, as I idly notice through the bus(y)ness of doing, day upon day, they have begun to resemble the memories of my mother's hands. And I love this, somehow. Any untoward obsessions with youth melt away as I stare at the new lines and creases brought on by everyday labor, toil, and the mundane and yet sacred simplicity of being me. Mother. Woman. Autonomous. Creator. Wife. Lover. Adventurer.
Mmmm, how I love this!
In fact, perhaps one could say that I'm not only fascinated by the changes that seem to resemble the exact antithesis of centerfold status, but am drawn unequivocally into the quiet potency and pulsating back-stories that dwell within the steady rhythm of veins powerfully blessing the blood-supply.
Defined. Pointed. Purposeful.
And far surpassing any other indicator.
For, isn't it always - in any paradigm - the facade that garners the glory?! Yet, isn't it always the heart of the matter that actually guarantees the absolute resonance of truth and/or equitable satisfaction?!
Something to chew on, inhale, consider, reflect. And then correct, champion, seek recompense. Preach.
Smiles.
Preach on, preacher.
I suppose I should say that this particularly arbitrary thought was brought about from a news' headline about women who, while endeavoring to keep themselves younger, were outed because of the condition of their hands. So tragic, honestly. And very definitely another tangent that could delve into deeper recesses of intensely layered discussion: intellections of wellness, being, prosperity -- convoluted associations, need, insecurity. And perhaps, the multiplicity of other sub-definitions, otherwise ignored, rejected, and bled aside.
No matter.
I love my hands. I love my hands.
Yes, I said that twice.
I love my hands, because -- like I said -- they remind me of my mother's. And that's not an idle musing: my mother can play concert piano, create artful chocolates, home-school seven children, garden, stand upon a second-story scaffolding at seven months pregnant while framing our next family home, manage her own stockholder portfolio, dig in the dirt, plant a garden, run around with grand-babies, raise pigs, comfort those who have lost loved ones, teach from the spirit and give of her soul to congregations of hundreds of women, tame a horse, ride a horse, and win ribbons in dressage for said horse.
My mother can. There is absolutely nothing that she can't.
To understand this heritage is to perhaps begin to understand me. "Can" is not just an operative word, but the lodestone to everything positive, powerful, spiritual; it is the impetus that would challenge incumbent insecurity.
And so I stare at my hands in wonder. I stare at them because I feel her, my mother. I stare at them because I feel a kinship to the vein formations - spider or otherwise - that have begun to accumulate; what they actually signify in my own life, and how much they express perceptions and experience.
And so I think that any and every bruising, age spot, singularly mottled affectation, or textured pattern, mean nothing to me cosmetically. I would loudly cry that they are treasured evidences of the very many chapters of my life.
And I am content.
So content.
My hands proclaim with echoing resilience and thunderous pride, everything I have ever accomplished, the experiences I have weathered, and yet pay homage to the clan from whence I came. I am neither too naive to misunderstand reality, nor too cognitive to not consider objectivity.
And so, I am. Of my own accord, fully my own. And very definitely owned by none.
It makes me wake upon every sunrise with a buoyancy of happiness that cannot be contained. I am unabashedly joyful. Unleashed. The promises of a new day and the intoxicating euphoria of what adventures will come, are more than welcome to etch further stories into my skin.
Talk about vein mapping! Smiles. Laughs.
In all ways, I am about the lines as much as I'm about everything in between -- for they are inherently, incredibly, sustainably and justifiably beautiful.
I say: Oh people, unleash your stories; the world needs you. Be your own renaissance of change.
Living Joy - This Carman Girl
