hands

Ask me what part of my body I can appreciate without hesitation, without ifs, ands or buts, and the first thing that springs to mind is my hands.

So about my hands. They're nice, my hands. They're strong, and extremely capable. About medium size, quite slender, with deep nail beds. They have a few freckles, like most of me. The middle fingers have a slight outwards curve. They don't dry out, they're almost always warm, and they're sensitive and soothing.

The thing I like most about my hands, though, is what they can do. They're absolutely fabulous in that regard. They'll type eighty five words a minute. They make wire jewellery. They knit perfectly evenly. They massage superbly. They're great with clay, which I recently rediscovered after sixteen years.

I had a conversation with someone awhile ago about how I got into making jewellery.

"Oh," I said, "I just thought I would like to try it, and I did."

"Is that always how you do things?" she asked, with more than a little sarcasm. "Just assume you can do them?"

I didn't like to say so, but actually, that's exactly how I do them, and that's largely because these hands of mine are trustworthy. About the only thing they can't do is draw, and I think that's more the eyes than the hands. If I really wanted to, I trust that they could do it.

If I touch the fingertips of both my hands together, I can feel my pulse in my fingertips. I can even see my forefingers pulsing just slightly.

My hands are awesome. Yay hands.