Monday, September 16, 2013

Hands. Her Hands.

My mother - in - love had a stroke a week or so ago and her children and some of her grandchildren (are taking turns spending time with her around her bedside - loving her, being a presence, praying for her, singing to her, comforting her.

Her life is in the balance and we don't know what the next moment holds - really - for any of us.

I've been allowing my mind and heart to ponder her - her life well-lived and of the many mental pictures I have of this remarkable woman - are her hands.

I think I'd say - she lived to love and she loved through her hands. She has lived to serve - whether it's washing your dishes, folding your laundry or re-organizing your seeds.

Mom would come to the farm to visit. Her presence was always a gift.  She liked our goats milk.

One day, while putzing around the farm, she asked if there was something she could do for me. When your husband's vision is to work and grow a self-sustaining urban farm there's always something someone can do.

I'd been organizing my seeds (I'm always organizing seeds) and what was left were the herbs and flowers, so my dear mother in love took to the task.

As I sat across from her at my little vintage table, I observed her hands.

I thought to myself, "They are beautiful hands."

I told her so, to which she replied, "No, they are 80 year old hands."

I said, "They are beautiful." I then proceeded to ask her permission to take some pictures of her, her beautiful hands and then asked if I could write about them and blog it with the pictures. She smiled and said, "Yes."

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