I love my life...it's taken me years to
get here...but I'm pretty content and
find that I'm drawn to an inspired life
of creativity, learning, living and loving.
My life's story weaves itself in and out of happiness,
contentment, struggles, laughter, hardships, sadness, losses,
gains, friends and family.
What I know now, is that my life's story has made me who I am and
I have been inspired by it and
hope to be an inspiration to others...My Inpsired Life
Hands...I've always had a fascination with hands. As an adult, I look at my hands and those of my family and I sometimes see the "genetics" of it all. Who do my hands look like? My cousin Tony has hands like my uncle's, who has hands like my Grandpa Herb's, his dad. My Aunt Dorothy's hands remind me of my Grandma Grace's; her mom. I see that my Aunt Elaine's girls hands look like hers, but hers don't look so much like Grandma Grace's; I sometimes think my hands look like my mom's, but I also think they look like my dad's side of the family. They inspire me!
Even as a little girl, the crooked fingers of my Great Grandma Heifner and worm-like veins on my Great Grandma Breton's hands were imprinted in my mind.
Grandpa Herb and his mother, Grandma Heifner
Gnarled and bent to the side, arthritis had Grandma Heifner's hands in it's grip. At one time straight and feminine, just like she was. At her death, small and delicate, just like she was. I was much younger when Grandma Heifner passed away, so I don't remember allot about her everyday comings and goings. She seemed old to me, even then, BUT, I do remember her hands.
Grandma Breton with Gr. Granddaughter Courtney
Grandma Breton's hands were narrow and long, encased with skin as delicate as an onions. Made transparent in the aging process, it didn't take much to bump and bruise. Even as her eyesight left her, she was able to crochet~her hands knew what to do...by memory. It was her hands that traced my youngest daughter, Mackenzy's face as a newborn. She said she'd be frugal because her nose was small. She could not see then. I remember her hands.
Their hands, at one time, were strong and capable. Many a household task was performed with them. A spanking~here and there, surely met their palm. Cookie dough rolled out, a piece of butterscotch candy put in a grandchild's hand.
I don't know if either played the piano or any other instrument; sang or were masters at anything, really. But, I'm confident that a nose was wiped, a tear swept away, and hundreds of meals were prepared. A helping hand was lent, a finger lashing now and again.
A garden planted, fruits and veggies picked and put up for another day. A baby's back patted, diaper's changed, clothes hung on the line, finger puppets games played. And, we can't forget a hug and a pat on the back.
Crooked fingers and worm-like veins were imprinted in my mind. And, as I sit here, writing this, I'm trying to remember if I knew their hands any other way; and, I don't think I do.
Hands...I've always had a fascination with hands. They inspire me!