These hands are beautiful hands and have done beautiful things. They have held newborn babies and touched the cheek of death. They have played compositions and planted tiny seeds. They have painted and sculpted and designed and written. They are strong hands. They have wrestled goats and raised up men. They have hauled lumber and soothed pain. I look at them now full of lines and scars, full of life, and I wonder. I wonder what you see. Do you see these hands and what they have done, where they have been, or instead perhaps you see what I see when I gaze at the mirror, the rest of me. The parts and pieces I try to hide. Do you see what I have done or do you see who I seem to be or who I am.
As I listen to waves crash against the shore and cool air brushes my cheek, I remember. I dream. That these hands are again being held gently as the sun sets and we gaze out at the world. I feel soft and delicate as we dream together of things that we hope will one day be. Together in our Eden surrounded by life, overcoming the past. Our hands together with one purpose pursuing our future. Hands covered in earth and life.
These hands with jagged nails and callouses. Hands with cracks and compulsions. They have kneaded bread and pulled weeds. They have entered data and drawn butterflies. They have done so much and still have so much to do.
These hands are strong and beautiful hands and I am beautiful because of them.