Whose hand?

Whose hand is this?

I am sitting at a desk. Writing in a journal.  Thoughts coming fast and furious, pen scratching across the page and I have an awareness of this hand on the desk.

It is wrinkled, old.  The fingers are stubby. There are freckles and age spots. The skin is papery.  And did I mention wrinkled?

Whose hand is this?

It can’t be mine.

My hands are strong and capable.  They wash and carry and love and write and haul and choose and comfort and gesture.  My hands are active and determined.  They are steady and brave.  My hands reach out, they give, they take, thy hold, they hug, they clasp, they greet and they connect me to others.

My hands aren’t beautiful or pretty.  The fingers aren’t long and graceful.  They can’t play the piano or violin or harp. They do not belong in an advertisement for jewelry or hand lotion.

But is this really my hand?  Is this where I am now?  This hand on the desk is well past youth.  It has none of the smooth resilience of girlhood.  Nor is it unblemished and glowing – as a young woman’s.

No, it has scars, marks of age, roughness and calluses.  And wrinkles.  Yes.  I say wrinkles.  I have wrinkled hands.

So much holding, washing, cooking, hugging, clasping, cleaning, carrying, writing, hauling, sorting and praying.  It shows up in these hands.

When I look at these hands I can tell they have been around the block.  A few times.  They have stories to tell.

So, hold the page steady you left hand.  Keep the journal open.  Spread it out in all your calm, steady wrinkled glory.

We have tales to tell.