Reflecting On My Hands
I’m sitting in bed this blustery Sunday morning, grateful for this precious space I’ve created in my bedroom. It’s my sanctuary. Candles are lit, early morning light peeking through the curtains, tea cup warming my hands.
I’ve begun listening to a reading and reflection of the Tao Te Ching on Insight Timer, one entry at a time. I listen, reflect and then journal what stands out for me. It’s becoming a beautifully reflective time for me.
This morning I pulled up the quilt that my mother made for me as I was feeling a little chilly. As I was listening, I began tracing the stitches her hands had hand stitched and felt emotion rising to the surface. I suddenly felt a deep, loving connection to her, now over 5 years since her death.
A piece I’d written whilst I was going through treatment last year came to mind and I want to share it here with you.
Hands.
I look at my hands and see the hands of generations of women.
I look at my hands and I see my mother’s hands. I took a photo of them a few years back whilst she was in the depths of dementia. She’d allow me to massage them with scented hand cream, to trim and paint her nails. We sat quietly together in communion. No words, just touch. A connection that I’d found hard before she got lost in her own world. She’d look at me with eyes filled with gratitude.
My mother’s hands were always busy with needle and thread, embroidering the most exquisite things that have outlived her and surely will me. I learned so much about craft from her. Her legacy to me.
I look at my hands and I remember my grandma’s hands, her ridged nails, her raised veins, the age spots – all of which I have now. I remember how she’d massage my hands one finger at a time, gently pushing back the cuticles, taking care of me in a way I’m not certain she did for herself. She taught me to take care of my hands.
My grandma’s hands were often covered in earth from tending her garden. I remember the smell of tomatoes on her hands as she brought them into the kitchen to make the most delicious tomato sauce, the recipe for which sadly went with her to the grave.
I’m told by the nurses that my hands have good veins as I offer one up to have a cannula inserted for my weekly chemotherapy. My hands now have bruising and puncture holes along with the age spots and brittle nails. I remember to look after my cuticles and massage hand cream into them at night.
These hands of these women have held and nurtured children, caressed lovers, they have wiped away tears of both joy and sadness, they have created meals and knitted sweaters. These hands have planted seedlings and made homes. My hands have touched my heart in gratitude and been pressed together in prayer. I look at my hands now with the deepest love and respect for all they’ve done for me these past 60 years.
And now today I have tears in my eyes as I reflect on my hands again. My right hand with so many age spots which I’m learning to love. My left hand with its collapsed veins, the portal entry for the life saving poison I accepted into my body. I’m not sure the nurses would be saying I have beautiful veins now. Yet, these collapsed veins are the price my left hand gracefully paid to save my life.
I sit here now reflecting with my health ‘restored’. The enormity of it all, the absolutely, mind bending, enormity of everything I went through last year. The gratitude that goes beyond any words I might find to write on this page is a full body experience! I am here, alive, stronger and becoming more vibrant. I’m beginning to recognise myself once more.
With love
Rebecca x
By the way, and in case you’re interested, I’m now a teacher on Insight Timer. I’ve used it as a place for mindfulness for years. The meditations, sound baths, inspiring talks were so helpful for me last year as I was going through treatment.