Your eyes may be the window to your soul but your hands are the narrative of your life. They’re like tree rings or snowflakes or fingerprints for no two are alike. Hands are the extension of our total being. A porcelain painter must steady her hand enough for delicate brushstrokes. The prizefighter wraps and tapes his for his title bout. A dancer’s hands convey emotion. A newborn placed in his father’s hands for the first time must feel his strength yet love.
Calluses and manicures, divots and dings, angel softness and bloodied roughness speak volumes. Each mark and scar serves as a personal diary.