Life is about going forward, no matter what age or stage we have reached, with our rear-view mirror adjusted to always remind us of where we have been.

The Language of Hands

When things change in my life I tend to look at my hands. A quirk, I suppose. I examine them, see how they've weathered. I am surprised at their skin - a history of me. Hands tell stories - they have a unique way of weaving through history yet touching the present. They really do tell people's life stories and they hold such experiences and memories in every line of their palm, in every wrinkle and mark on their skin.  So much is told by looking at so little. They are the markers of time and the keepers of history - like a photo album without pictures. They are the story of where we have been and reflect he hills and valleys we have travelled.

Sometimes I look at the 'scars' of my hands and remember where and when I got them - the mark on a knuckle that got jammed in a door when I was eleven - the tooth marks of a friend's dog that bit me when I was 25 - the hard callous on the side of my right pinky finger shaped by pressure as I write - the crookedness of several fingers on my left hand now filled with arthritis in my senior years.

Just as a quick glimpse of myself in the rear-view car mirror on a sunny afternoon catches  me by surprise, as the unfamiliar yet similar reflection of myself makes me realize that I am no longer the young woman I once was, so, too, does a glance at my hands, now aged and wrinkled. Life has happened and I have become aware that that there are more years behind me than in front of me, but how my face and hands have aged becomes less and less an issue - who I am is now the point, and my hands have served me well down the roads that I have travelled to become who I am.  They have washed and cleaned. They have been sticky, wet, bent, broken, dry and raw. They have typed and they have written. They have shaken in anger, covered my face when I cried, trembled in hurt and fear. They have been uneasy and clumsy but they have also been creative and loving and happy and caring and giving. They have held and caressed my children and my grandchildren.

I look at my hands now and see my mother's and my grandmother's hands, veiny and long. I love the connection, even though it means that I have grown old. Life has come full-circle, and, where I once sat and studied  the hands of my grandmother, my granddaughter now sits with me , and with her dimpled fingers she plucks idly at the roadmap of veins, rubbing the back of my hands, first one, then the other, as she pulls each dark blue vein into a ridge and then watches it melt back down, inspecting the weathered skin. The hands of her grandmother are like the comfort of her favorite blanket - they have surrounded her emotionally while protecting her from life's little ups and downs.

These same hands, now aged and wrinkled, have been the remarkable tools that I have used to reach out, to grab on and to embrace life to it's fullest.   

A Garnish of Joy 

When Aynsleigh, my now 16 year old granddaughter, was only 6 years old and spending the weekend with me, she sat at my kitchen table, staring at me as if seeing me for the first time. I asked her if anything was wrong and she answered "Grammie, you're old - you're an antique." Being somewhat taken aback , and with my self esteem somewhat shattered, I explained that to be an antique something had to be at least 100 years old, and I was certainly not that age yet! I continued to explain to her that an antique is not only just old, but is an object that has existed since earlier times and that it is a treasure that has to be handled very carefully because it is usually quite valuable. We finished doing our artwork in our casual chatty manner as we shared our life together - although I was constantly aware of her watching me closely.

Later that afternoon as Aynsleigh helped me with some light housekeeping chores, something she loved to do whenever she visited, I pointed out the old, wood bureau that I stored linens in and told her that the bureau had come from the country of Wales and had been handed down from one family  to another and then finally to our family when my grandmother gave it to me as a gift. It was very old, I told her, and that I try to look after it and keep it polished, as that is what you do with antiques. I also told her that whenever I looked at the bureau, or touched it, it reminded me of my grandmother and that I could see her face again - I could hear her voice and recall her smile. I also pointed out the soldier-blue milk can on the floor in entrance hall by the front door. It had been in my home for a long time, although I was no longer certain where it had come from, but I knew that I didn't buy it new. It showed signs of age, and as the years went by it had become more valuable. The one thing about antiques, I explained to Aynsleigh, is that they usually have a story behind them - they have been in one home and then another, handed down from family to family, have travelled many places - they could have been thrown away or tossed out, ignored, destroyed or lost, but instead, because of the history behind them, they have become treasures to many people.

Aynsleigh, with a dishcloth in her small hands, looked up at me thoughtfully and said "I don't want any antique but you". With tears in my eyes, I picked her up and hugged her in a way that I hoped would last throughout the years - realizing that this moment was a garnish of joy in my life, and trusting that it would be one in Aynsleigh's memories of her special times spent with her 'antique' Grammie. 

Reflections In A Mirror

By Beverlee Blampied (c) 2010

When I look in the mirror, who do I see

Who's reflection is this looking back at me

The face looks familiar although not quite the same
As the face that I remember belonging to my name
When I look in the mirror I'm shocked to see
A much older woman looking back at me
Crows-feet are etched beside my eyes
There are lines at my mouth, a double chin
My hair has turned grey, and to my surprise
I'm no longer looking quite so thin
There are wrinkles and sags and under-eye bags
When did all this begin?
Who is this woman I see in the mirror
She really can't be me
Who's reflection is showing there
Have I really become what I see?
Surely the reflection in the mirror
Should also show what is truly real
A silhouette of an enlightened woman
As the aged layers started to peel
The physical image of the woman in the mirror
Should really matter none
As it;s just a physical reflection
That shows nothing of what she has done
Or the person she worked so hard to become
Events in our lives happen in a sequence of time
And life's challenges help us to discover who we are
In youth we learn and in age we understand
And the years, one from another, seem not very far
The Fountain of Youth is found in our mind
And if we tap this resource we will ultimately find
That no matter what the reflection in the mirror shows
And no matter what there still is to learn and to know
Her physical aging should not be a measure
For what her heart and soul hold are really the treasure