My body

I am a portrait of expression, a composition comprised of experience. I am the performance of my self.

Each of us has a body made of up of stories. In our hands, in our voices, in our sensibilities, our posture; we tell our story. If I look at my hands, I can remember swing-set ropes I have held onto. I can remember where I earned the scar on my knee, on my ankle. When I look another person's hands, I imagine how many dishes they have washed. If they have ever held a child and if it makes them soften their regular grip on life. I look at the wrinkles and the calluses. I look at the soft curve of their fingers and how their hands are placed on their lap, in their pockets, articulating the edges of their personality. A story of my conditioning, my manner, my pattern is known, and speaks for me in my hands.  I was taught to place my hands in such a way, folded, quietly in my lap while waiting for time to pass, properly. How do you wait? Who showed you where to place your hands while you sit? How do your hands grace your brow, or tuck loose pieces of hair behind an ear? How do you speak with your hands in moments where you can't find the words to say?