Healing Hands
I have been studying my hands the last few days. I have looked at each line, each knuckle, every little bump and every little scar. Each mark is a map of hands that have loved to work. A labourer's love.
My grandmother was a farmer's wife. Her hands were the hands of a working woman. She hauled water for the house, she helped in the fields, fed the chickens and collected their eggs. Her hands were always busy.
There was nothing she wouldn't do with her hands to help my grandfather.
As a child I remember wanting my hands to look just like hers. A dream come true, I have the hands of a working woman who has relied on touch as my livelihood, just like my grandma.
My hands have loved to touch and to be touched in sacred union. They have calmed, bathed and diapered babies. They have joyfully cooked millions of meals.They have untangled knots, figured out puzzles, gestured wildly and have sent energy around the world and back.My hands have brought comfort to thousands of horses, easing their burden. They have loved on dogs, helping them to release their pain. My hands have helped people in all stages of life.
These working woman hands have secured me the dream of a lifetime job.
My hands have dug in the dirt without gloves. They have scrubbed floors, shoveled mulch, manure and snow. They have taken pictures. They have clung onto rocks while hiking.
My hands have saved my life more than once.
My hands have fed my very being, they are strong, they are healing. They have soothed many souls, including my own. I have my grandmother's hands. I know she would be proud. I'm grateful for my hands with every line, wrinkle and vein. They are the map of a life well lived in love.
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