Since I was a little girl I had old hands...hands filled with lines, stubby and crooked fingers. These hands are filled with stories of babies held and the clay pots thrown, words written and tubes of paint squeezed (sometimes too much just because it feels good). These hands held the hand of my husband in an emergency room, have signed documents for a myriad of personal medical tests, made many, many matcha tea lattes, turned many pages, and always carried found rocks, branches and feathers. I will be 46 years old this summer and I'm beginning to grow into these hands. These are the years I looked forward to for as long as I can remember even all the while knowing that time wouldn't make anything easier, that the challenges I would face would still be there but would be different, but also that the memories and joys would increase. Accumulation. The most beautiful woman I have ever known was my grandmother. The lines in her hands and face foretold the wisdom behind her sparkling eyes. Her skin so soft, her long locks of silver like plumage. I wanted to be like my grandmother...and instead of being wise and kind and softly quiet, I am full of emotion and cry tears of joy, of sorrow, of anger. I am a chatterbox who loves to laugh and to share everything I have learned. And I am learning to love myself just as I am. To be thankful for the wisdom and kindness of my grandmother; to remember to let go when I know I should; to appreciate every thing, every day; to be grateful for these hands.