So my hands. I have not really examined a part of me in true fashion for a while now. Truth be told I have struggled a bit with the photographic aspect of where I intended to go next. But, I think that for now my hands are a worthwhile component of my being to examine.

Here in my hands I hold nothing, and everything. In my hands have been the blood sweat and tears of my self as well as many I have and do love. My hands have been burdened by weight, burns, cuts and sprains. There greatest triumph is the ability to increasingly grow in their strength, flexibility and grace as my son and I age, as his weight bears down harder, as my fingers move more slowly, as daly toils take their toll, the grace of my hands increases.

These hands have displayed the luxuries of sapphires and diamonds, of Tiffany’s and heirlooms. These hands have helped and hurt; healed and injured.

Daily I use my hands. The more I use my hands the better I can say I feel. The dirt and mud, the smell of herbs and dogs. There has never been better work than that I have done with my hands. This delicate feature, fingers and nails, require great up keep for display, for my adoration –  lotion and filing and trimming and oiling – all for me, for you, for a perfect background for the tokens to be displayed. It is hard work for a mother to keep her hands, well respectable. My nails likely will not amount to anything to glamorous, and they will constantly battle dry skin, but, they are strong and capable. They create. They feel. They lead. They toil. My hands are the beginning and ending of every day. They turn on and off the alarm, they gentle wake my son and send him to sleepy bliss. They catch my tears of joy and of sorrow. My hands are well used, well loved. They dig in the dirt for play, and for nurture, they cook for joy and care, they clean for me and for others, they blow bubbles and build puzzles , they write and they turn pages. My hands are my guide, they hold my head up when I pray to God, they squeeze my son when they day has been long, they pick a flower and brush my hair.

They are not the most well maintained. I perhaps abuse the privilege of such talented hands. There are days I forget lotion, or stay submerged in the water. I try, but some how I have never been bothered by the appearance of my hands. Some how, I have always allowed them more room for imperfection, I understood them to be a tool. I have always understood the capacity at which I have been able to function at the cost of my hands. Cards, meals, dishes.  I thought that my hands were a tool to express love, to show others how I cared. I don’t think that is invalid. I do however, think that I overestimated the ability to which I could express my love through products of my hands.

I understand now that the love I have for others can be shown through small tokens crafted between my fingers, but also the touch of my fingers on a forehead, a back, holding hands, a tickle. Perhaps our hands are as much a means to our soul as our eyes are.

In many ways our hands are all we have. They are our primary tool, our means of being real. Our hands allow for all of our daily functions, all of what is needed to be alive, to be part of this species, part of something more. Applying our hands to daily tasks helps to create the path for ourselves and for others. We are as successful as our ability, as our hands, as our being will allow.

My hands may not take me to fame, to notoriety, to riches; but every day they take me home, they feel the small toes, short hair and soft cheeks of the small child that I brought into this world, a child I hold with the same loving hands as the day he was born. And though my destiny may be bigger than I imagine, for now, if all my hands do is fish, garden and wash hair, well for now, thats simply enough.

Pure. Simple. True. Devoted. Unconditional. My hands are an expression of my love for life, my love for self and my love for others.

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