I have always been aware of my hands. From an early age as I viewed my hands outstretched in front of me, I somehow felt that the image of my hands would always be there. That one would be able to frame the present through those same hands and measure the passage of time by seeing the change upon the frame.

My hands now carry the scars and memories of my life. As do most everyones. I have always heard that the eyes are the window to our soul, but I believe the hands expose a more detailed view of our story.

My hands are stiffening with age. They carry the pain of arthritis. Having never thrown a punch in my life, I still somehow question how I could even have the grip to toss a baseball, much less a punch.

Deadheading flowers in the garden is about as tough a foe as I deal with.

It is a marvel to find details of life within the wrinkles of time.

What story do your hands tell?…monos en theos…†…jim