A Story from My Hands

journal pipaluk poetry Mar 06, 2023
Hand on Snow

These veins have become soft rivers in a landscape of skin.

I look at them. Wrinkles have multiplied.

I see gnarly old tree roots and bones of the earth.

Their past was smooth and soft. The softness is still there.

These hands were as sunflowers in summer. Now they are of the late summer. The first leaves have turned orange and some have fallen and touched the ground.

That final heat of summer has begun. That heat which turns all leaves orange and brown.

Autumn follows.

Autumn is beautiful.

I notice rings of gold and white gold on my finger, and a snake with many colors. Each are keepers of meaning.

I notice my love for the shape and texture of my nails. This love grew from what once was shame and loathing.

I notice the beauty I see when I look at these aging hands. When these hands were youthful I saw so little beauty in myself.

I see the care these hands have given. To others. To myself.

So much care.

Seeing beauty when I look at my hands is not something I take for granted. I worked hard for this. I practiced every day.

This practice is the ongoing shifting of the perception of everything. It is the art of consistently showing up to beauty and love. It is the art of becoming present in this moment.

It is a lifelong practice and it is never perfect. This is good.

Credits: Text and photo by Pipaluk. Photo made with an Instax Mini camera.


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