“Your hands are so old and wrinkly,” she said while we were in a Downward Facing Dog pose during a recent kids yoga session. To which I replied, “Oh, but I love them. I think they are awesome.” She seemed surprised of my response, but time didn’t allow a further explanation.
What I wanted to share with her is that I love my hands because they map the journey of my life. I love every wrinkle, sunspot, and dry patch.
These hands have held:
pinecones, dirty rocks, sappy branches, wild watercress and blackberries, horse reins, bicycles bars, cross country ski poles, hockey sticks, puppies, kittens, dogs, tennis rackets, bibles, sacred letters, pictures of loved ones, our girls for their first breastfed meal, countless coffee cups.
They have:
gripped my husband’s hands while we recited our vows, rubbed backs, rested gently on my mom’s breathless belly, hugged my father’s aging torso, waved too many hard goodbyes and celebratory hellos, held me up in handstands, written love letters, made mudras, prayed and prostrated the earth, clenched with injustice, hitchhiked, made thousands of home cooked meals, built sandcastles, flipped baseball cards, massaged weary shoulders, and offered healing touch.
So, yes, my hands may look old to a nine-year-old but, they have served me so well. And that goes for the rest of my body – the wrinkles on my face, sagging seat, and softer belly. I love it all, this temple and container of light.