HUM 6353 Creative Practice #3

Touch

Continuing with the 12 things, I am considering touch this week. We take our hands and fingers, feet and toes, our skin  and even our tongue for granted. All of these things enable us to feel heat, cold, texture and each other. I am so blessed to have the ability to touch and feel everything in my environment. First of all, our hands are amazing things with so many points of contact to the things we touch.

My hands can stroke my husband's soft, silver hair or pat one of my three dogs. I can use them to crumble the soil when I am working in the yard, which for some odd reason is incredibly satisfying. I can feel the silkiness of a rose petal or a piece of silk fabric. Then I can feel the grit of sand or the roughness of tree bark with the same hands. This sensitivity and ability to differentiate between texture is so incredible. It is a shame that we take our abilities to feel through our sense of touch for granted most of the time.

 Hands

Hands first pulled me out of the warm home I'd lived in my first 9 months of existence. Hands made sure I was breathing and bathed my little body before presenting me to the hands that would hold and nurture me for years to come.

Hands held mine to keep me safe when out in the world. Hands guided me and held my bicycle upright when I tried to learn to ride. Hands pushed my swing high in the air.

Hands held my hair back when I was terribly sick. Hands made my clothes and brushed my hair. Hands spanked me when I was wrong. Hands clapped for me when I was right. Hands held mine when I cried. 

Hands picked flowers for me and made me presents. Hands worked for me to earn a living.
Hands held my baby and will soon hold my grandchild. Hands will crochet it a blanket.

Hands create artwork, prepare my food, work the soil in my garden. Hands wash my face and body. Hands steer my car and type on my computer.

Hands. They do so much. Hands. Tiny baby hands. Little child hands. Teenage hands. Grown up hands. Senior hands. Hands. 

Common to all. Taken for granted. Hands, so important, so sensitive, so special, yet ordinary.
Hands so smooth in our beginning, so wrinkled in the end. They tell our story. Look at them. Hands.