hands

I've been having what may only be called a bit of anxiety and a little bit of an inferiority complex lately. I think we all go through those stages once in a while and in an attempt to get out of my "funk", I've been reading various parts of my journals I've written over the years. I found these two little passages that seemed to connect with me today.

This first I wrote when my mom was dying.
How she loved the sun. As a child I would look at her callused hands, chapped and cracked from hours of gardening and would wonder why she would work in the garden when it obviously resulted in pain. Watching her struggle to make her way to the weed I realized that it was her way of creating something wonderful, it was her masterpiece. One of her sisters was an artist, the other a musician and she, well she was her own breed of talent. She had the ability to take a seed which held the promise of new growth and turn it into a beautiful plant that not only produced food that nourished the body of those she loved, but nourished her soul as well. Why had I never appreciated the talent it took to garden. Why had I not appreciated her love of the soil? I felt guilty for at times I judged those callused hands and hesitated to hold them -- not realizing they were a badge of honor Not realizing how painful it would be hold them once they became soft and smooth from lack of use.

This one was written a couple years later when I noticed one of my daughters looking at me the same way I had looked at my mom.

Dear Daughter,

I watched you take my hand today with a bit of hesitation. You looked them over quickly and with a bit of awkwardness decided it would be okay for a brief moment. It was like holding a limp doll in my hand as you tried with all your might to block out the images of rough callouses, chapped knuckles, chipped nails and freckles turned to age spots. My heart sank as I remembered my own mother's hands. Hands much like my own with tiny bits of green from endless gardening staining the cracks in her fingers. I'd watch her in the evening soak her hands and rub them with lotion. An emery board was a standard item at the side of her bed and she'd file them to perfection knowing full well that tomorrow when she scrubbed the pans left in the sink by her children they'd be uneven and ragged once again. I'd look at her hands and compare them to the hands of other women who had regular appointments at the beauty salon to polish and buff their hands and shine their nails with a hard acrylic paint in just the right shade. I thought that perhaps my mom didn't approve of that ritual, perhaps she didn't care about manicures and pedicures. It wasn't until you said to me, “your nails would look prettier with polish, you should get manicures,” did I realize that I too didn't care for the weekly ritual of self indulgence. I choose instead to spend my money on lessons for my children, or making sure you have just the right swim suit for the next party. My mom could have chosen to spend her time in a chair chatting with women about trivial manners but instead she spent her time pruning trees and pulling weeds so our garden would thrive. She chose to scrub the bathrooms and the floors so we'd have a home to be proud of. It was never the biggest, it never had the fanciest of furniture but it was always the cleanest. She chose instead to play catch and clap loudly from the sidelines as my brother and I competed in events that would help us make our mark on the world. I realize now that my mom wore her calloused hands as badges of honor. They meant she had completed yet another day of hard, demanding yet somehow still fulfilling work. It meant she continually put her children first. So when you look at my hands and think that I just don't care about them, remember that my hands are just right to make your dinner or fold your clothes. My nails are just the right length to help open stubborn packages and untie knots that refuse to let go. They are just right for holding ice on your latest scrap or rub lotion on your back so you won't burn. Remember that it is your hands that matter to me, the way they fit in mine. The way they sound strumming a note on your instrument of choice; the way they play with the latest toy or hold your pencil to your paper. What matters is the way they tenderly pet the cat or comfort your siblings. Please don't hesitate to hold them, my badges of honor, my connection to my mother and my lifeline with you.

Funny how times change. I have had a couple of pedicures since writing this and if I weren't so cheap I'd probably jump at the chance to have my nails done :)