Enigma #785

Photo Courtesy of www.redcanyonart.com

Sat in the yard this morning, reading. The book is talking to my spirit and soul. To understand the message, the book needs to be closed occasionally to think about the ideas introduced in her words.

My hands are not often idle. When not holding the book, they immediately start pushing back the cuticles of my finger nails...a very old habit started when I was 14 or 15 years old.

I looked down as my right thumb pushed at the nail bed of the pinky finger on my left hand. The bright sun was laser-bright on my left hand.

There, plain-as-day, half an inch from the last knuckle of the pinky; 1/8 " long, 1/16" wide, my very first "age spot"! My mouth flew open in surprise, pride, dismay; the whole gamut of emotions.


For as long as I can remember, people have told me that I have "pretty hands". When I was young, people always commented on the length of my fingers or the strength of my hands. I had a more than impressive reach on the piano keys. A man I dated told me I had fingers that "go from here to there!"

The strength in my fingers is impressive. When I massage someone's back or hands or feet, I  often catch them with eyes rolled back and just a bit of drool in the corner of their mouth.

Great-grandma's hands were powerful yet unquestionably tiny. She was 4'11" but a personality that was veritably giant. Her tiny hands mirrored knarled roots of an old pinion pine tree, announcing to the world, "I have lived life to the fullest!" I loved her hands and dreamed of possessing such hands when I was in my 80's and 90's.

What does this tiny brown spot mean to me?

The synchronicity of this discovery just days after Photoshopping pictures of my mom and dad is incredible. As I tweaked contrast and light levels in a five generations photo, I caught myself staring at my mother's hands. Her skin is ivory, soft, blemish free, almost transparent. Her nails are perfect ovals, all exactly the same shape and length. The blue contrast of the her veins, so very apparent.  Mom is truly the Scarlett O'Hara of the west; the sun was her enemy!  Her face, hands and, especially, decolletage were sacred space, to be protected at all times! Gloves and wide brimmed hat were mandatory when working in the yard, garden and even the beach.

I didn't inherit that tendency. Shea butter, baby oil or nothing! I lifted my face to the sun and sang, "make me brown!"  All those beautiful tans, swimming in the surf, the lakes and the pool without a care about SPF-anything!

The enigma is, I really don't know how I feel about this change in my hand. The fingers are still long, my grip is still strong but something is different.  Has the skin on the back of my hand betrayed me? Is this the beginning of the end? There is one little bit of my mind called Ego, that is screaming, "Call a dermatologist! Get this burned off!"

But, even as I type this, my eyes wander down to that little spot. Surprisingly, I think I love it!

Do you remember being 12 or 13? One day, out of the blue, menarche bursts out of nowhere. That tiny bit of blood is a banner that silently announces, WELCOME; YOUR WORLD HAS JUST CHANGED! ! You had just crossed the threshold from child to woman.

I am standing at another threshold.

It is right here; I can feel it. This freckle-that's-not-a-freckle is my ticket to the new kingdom.  I believe I am going to embrace the next phase of my life. Act III is here.  This wee bit of brown spot is inspiring me to immerse myself (and the crew) in life, in awareness, in full consciousness.

Most honorable Hecate, here I am! Ready, Willing and Able!