Honoring the Scars

Whenever my hands are cold old scars in hues of dark browns and purple-blue begin to surface.
Like a photograph being developed, a clear picture of my life starts come into focus and the scars are there to tell a story. The callouses corroborate, and an unfair amount of wrinkles bare witness.
My hands seem older than they rightfully should.

This afternoon I am cold.
And so these old hands remind that there is much to remember. They ache and feel stiff. I make a fist, and stretch out each arthritic digit, examining each exquisite scar.
All mementos that I have come so far, many of which I inflicted upon myself.

I once wrote in regards to self mutilation that I choose to
"bleed before I cry because tears fade and scars remain. Tokens reminding us that the past was real ... & the comfort of watching yourself heal." 

It now seem prophetic. How easily we forget this / journey of small triumphs as we so eagerly aspire to live in the now. "Be present" I constantly remind myself.
But not today.

Today I am honoring the scars. Today I am honoring my hands. Riddled with war stories and aftermath, their imperfection and bare knuckle brawn remind me of old war veterans: weathered and strong.

My hands are as tender as they are tough.
They heal and spread love with even the slightest touch.
They make meals for the masses ... they even weave  magic.
My hands are a road maps of my life's labored and lovely journey.