I’ve been somewhat fascinated with my hands lately.

I have callouses from rock climbing. I love my climbing callouses, which seems odd, but I think they’re just a reminder that I have time and ability to do something I enjoy doing on a regular basis. And maybe a splash of the badass feeling I had making it up that last route last time.

For a while, I’ve sometimes wished I had close up photos of my hand on a hold. It’s often a particular hold; I don’t know why. Usually outside; occasionally inside. I snapped a few using a large rock on the ground once near where we were climbing. My angles were bad, so they didn’t turn out at all as I’d like, but The Climbing Daddy jumped in and we ended up with some that were nice in that way.

My fingers can move in patterns to play songs on a myriad of different instruments. When I play ukulele enough (read: not lately), I have callouses for that, too.

One finger (right hand pinky) changed the course of my college career, which led to so many opportunities that I wouldn’t have had otherwise. Another story for another day.

Of course, I use my fingers to type all of these posts. And emails. And social media posts. And whatever other things I type for work or for play.

And I use some of them to write. My book, so far, has been mostly hand-written, though as of earlier this week, there is also now an electronic copy.

My hands grip weights for lifting.

They hold hands. They rub backs. They tie shoes. They please my lover.

They pull the weeds, push the vacuum, chop the veggies, spread the nut butter, stir all the things.

A long time ago, I learned how to give a good hand massage. I didn’t use that skill, and I’ve forgotten. But I think it would be great for The Climbing Daddy and I to learn it, to be able to give some special lovin’ to these amazing hands that do so much for us every day.

(Every time I’ve read that last sentence, I’ve cringed at what sounds like hyperbole, but I truly am amazed by these things lately.)


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