From the feet up posts are my overt actions at making peace with my over 50 self, cementing my confidence, and finding gratitude for a body that still works.
My hands. I’ve got my Dad’s hands, nail beds finger shapes, palm shape.
My fingers are not the tapered, slender digits of a piano player, but they have been known to pound out a tune on the piano, and strum out something fun on the guitar.
I have nice nails, I keep them short because I’m always doing something with my hands, typing, gardening, cooking. I stopped having my nails done professionally when they got over Dremeled last year, and burnt from the Gel polish that I liked. I think they have grown out well from the damage.
My hands don’t show my age too terribly. There are no age spots, or arthritic knuckles.
They are strong hands that hold me in plank during Yoga and TRX. They are hands that have held my babies, clapped for them at their sporting events, held their sweet faces for loud, sloppy mom-kisses, patted them on the back when they did well, stroked their hair when they were not happy, felt for fevers when they were ill.
Scars? There are only 2 little scars on my hands. When I was 8 I had a Gerbil that decided that he didn’t want to be held any more and bit me. The middle finger on my left hand has a little line of scar along the nail bed from me getting a little too aggressive chopping veggies, and I sliced the side of my finger almost off. I grabbed a big bandaid, and kept going. I probably should have gotten stitches, but I’m not too into doctors. It healed nicely without infection, all’s well that ends well.
Making peace with myself is an odd thing. Being conditioned since age 12 to self deprecate, or find fault, or be dissatisfied is a deeply imbedded habit to break.
I’m grateful for the health that I’ve enjoyed, the strength that I need to get about and participate fully in life, and the time to change some old, and terrible habits so that I can appreciate where I am in my journey now.