Wednesday, May 30, 2012
I recall as a young girl hearing my grandmother say that she was unhappy with the signs of age showing in her hands. As I looked at my own hands recently, I could see signs of aging, too, and I wondered just where my young hands had gone. My mom always said that she had capable hands, hands that were strong, with square-tipped fingers. Alas, my hands are smaller, weaker and quite often, truthfully, look like monkey's hands to me. Despite her protestations, I always told Mom that her hands had an elegance to them. She carefully tended to her nails and she always had a ring on the ring fingers of both of her hands. I, on the other hand (no pun intended...really), keep short-clipped nails for all of the typing I do and I gave up on polish a long time ago when it dawned on me that I was covering growing nails with paint of sorts. I wear only my ring from Larry, a delicate ring of emeralds (my birthstone) and diamonds. But, it's not what my hands look like, it's what I do with them. Do I use my hands to figuratively raise up another person? Hold the hand of one who needs compassion? Use them to do a good day's labor? Now, that's something important for me to ponder.