Thursday, August 21, 2014
Being so shy growing up, drawing a lot, sewing a lot and now milking a goat have all been opportunities to notice my hands. For years now I've noticed how aged they are looking, moreso than my 33 years. Other friends my age, even older, still have taut, smooth skin, thin veins and manicures. My skin is loosening, my knuckles look like they don't fit my fingers and my veins are large and in charge. My nails are strong and long, but rarely manicured. It just doesn't last.
For a little while it bothered me. But it doesn't anymore. I do a LOT with my hands. I feel a lot. I experience a lot. I knit, I sew, I write, I hug, massage, milk, knead, smooth....my hands are a garden spade, a temperature gauge, a source of comfort. They've been burnt while cooking fancy meals over open fires. They're reached for by tiny hands. They've built things I never thought I could build. They've hand stitched reproduction 18th century garments used by living historians and on display in museums. They've been bruised by fencing (swords), scratched and bitten by animals. They helped extract a deer fetus from the unfortunate mother deer who ran in front of my car. They've stung from the caustic lye of soapmaking.
How can I not like my hands?! Even if they do look 50 instead of 33. They've seen a lot of life and I plan on them seeing more!
*It is ironic that farm life (even my little one, such as it is) ages someone as well as keeps them surprisingly young.