My hands. My hands are old-at least they look old-very old. My godson’s call them “Nana” hands because they look like the hands of their sweet 85-year-old great grandmother! 85 years old! I am so not 85 years old and it is hard for me to accept the fact that my hands look as if I am.
My hands are critical to my creativity. They hold my camera, they write my words whether in my journal or on my laptop. My hands bring pleasure to others and myself, they are gifted parts of what makes me – me. They can calm with just a touch and sooth a worried soul. My hands can cradle and comfort a baby or calm a distraught child, they can reassure a friend with just a brief touch. They relay my authenticity when meeting someone, or when listening to the sharing of another’s heart. My hands are valuable beyond measure but … why must they look so old?
This is part of that acceptance of my arrival at “a certain age”, of coming to terms with all the parts of me as they also arrive at this stage physically. It is a very visible reminder of my aging and it is one that is not only visible to me but to everyone else as well. It is a sign to all that I am no longer a young woman but a woman that is in her midlife and whose body is showing the wear of 49 plus years of life.
It’s hard to see and even harder to accept but try as I might, I can’t Photoshop the lines and visible veins out of my hands. They will remain as part of who I am at this time, in this place as a woman of a certain age.