Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Handsy




DD, 7 gave me a ring yesterday from a yard sale, it's a pair of sunglasses that fits my middle finger.

It got me thinking about how little my hands break for fun or to laissez les bon temps rouler or for fashion sunwear.  They're  always in the sink amidst the dish soap, in the dirt, or rummaging in my pocketbook for a mint, or picking up one thing from one place and placing it in another. I'm a digger and a grubber. Instead of human hands I should have been given paws. I relate to moles.

Years ago I had my hands hennaed for the wedding of my boss's daughter. It forced me to spread my fingers before a very elderly female relative of the family who took her time with them and made them beautiful, even using the bumps of my knuckles to form the hubs of little red-brown suns. I was stunned by them.

I stared at them in a sort of meditative trance, Jon Kabat-Zin-like. My hands. Hands. Sentient beings. Then it faded.

Isn't that how it goes? Intuition, sense of the universe  -- laundry.

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