Last week, I killed one bird with two stones when the middle finger of my left hand was smashed between what seemed like two boulders, provoking a free form dance of pain and forcing me to forego any Birch Bark Papers for a while. The bird is in working condition again, although it is a little fuzzy-wooly, but the most lasting effect is the constant awareness of my hands and how I use them.
So as I flipped through a book today, an image of Gertrude Stein's hands gave me pause. They were roundly plump but stolid and seemed to indicate as much about her personality as the lines of her face. Looking down at my own sad hands I realized they reveal a great deal about my life in Vermont: bruised, scratched, scared, calloused, and often slightly grubby. Well, as Scarlett O'Hara says to her sister in Gone with the Wind, "I guess things like hands and ladies don't matter so much anymore."
Posts
