Hands

“I feel a thousand capacities spring up in me.

I am arch, gay, languid, melancholy by turns.

I am rooted, but I flow.”

(Virginia Woolf, The Waves)

My hands are becoming busier now that Spring has settled in.

Gardening. Soil underneath my nails I carefully clean pots that have set out all winter. Huge planters must be emptied, cleaned, oiled and prepared for this year’s flowers and herbs. I’ll do a few outdoor tasks then come inside to clean up, carefully washing my hands, digging soil out from beneath fingernails and applying lotion or cream or oil. Rest up, hydrate, talk to my husband. Then, it’s time to put my hands back to work chopping, mixing, preparing the evening meal. One hand holds a glass of wine while the other stirs vegetables in a cast iron skillet. We eat what was prepared and talk about our day. Then, time to clean up, hands dipped into hot, soapy water. A final grand show of their abilities – washing, rinsing, drying and putting away. Clean the counters.

Hands are such wonders, aren’t they? I am rooted, but I flow daily with Gratitude for my hands.

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