Change comes in all forms.
We are told that we are resistant to it, it can be unsettling, we crave routine while there are some who thrive with or that we need change to grow. We actually live within change – we can pretend we have order and control but often in life it’s the major change events that shape the ultimate path that we are not necessarily forging but laying behind us.
When I was talking to a friend about this trip before we left, I mentioned the nagging desire of not wanting the process to be some search for a meaning as I tried to stumble through my middle years. I didn’t want to spend the time waiting for some epiphany that would help me make sense of it all. Of course, this was just a weak self-protective verbal insurance policy to make sure this ultimately selfish desire didn’t overtake my enjoyment of what is an extraordinary privilege.
She said that whatever happened, that I would be different at the end of it no matter what. It was comforting and best of all, likely to manifest with little to no effort on my behalf, which is exactly the style of life epiphany I can get used to.
Already I have noticed some changes, mainly physical. I haven’t shaved, so a speckled brown, grey stubble covers my face. I haven’t washed my hair, so it stays in the position I last left it, like a faithful dog. I’ve been wearing thongs, so my shins and feet are dotted with small scratches and healing wounds.
But the main point of change is my hands. They have become someone else’s. No surprises as they suddenly contend with trailer hitches, fires, dirt and grime compared to keyboard and mouse.
Cracks have appeared near the nails, and on the sides of my pointing finger. Not cuts, but cracks. There are lines of dirt in these cracks. Your thumb and pointing finger of your preferred hand (in my case, the right) are the workhorse digits – easily dirtiest. On the flipside, my little pinky on the left still looks like it’s just stepped out of a half hour shower and treatment, pink and soft, almost embarrassingly naked.
Hands and fingers are a fascinating storyteller of their owners, unique in what they reveal. I can immediately think of my parent’s hands, especially my Dad’s. A farmer, his were often dirty and wounded, occasionally spotted with small thorns and splinters but also, surprisingly soft on the underside. They were also reassuringly dry. Mum was also often working outside, but maintained her nails and skin so they were always essentially feminine, something that not all women who work physically manage.
The hands of my wife are beautiful. They are a wonderful shape and there’s a certain implied dexterity to them. I know that the boys will also remember them, as they get older.
And it’s these hands, those of the two boys, hands that still search for mine as we cross streets or walk through crowds, that I notice most now. They still fit easily within my palm, but they are changing, like us all. Their hands will continue to grow and continue to tell the stories that will shape the form of their lives.
Big Country 