My hands and my heart. The first literally, the second in the more metaphorical sense. I suppose that's obvious, though. It's not like I've ever really seen my heart, although I have seen others. I saw the first transplant hearts, both the one taken out and the one put in. They're in jars ar Heart Transplant Museum. I stray. I do, of course, appreciate my literal heart. It's done a damn fine job of pumping blood in and out and round about for over thirty five years, and for that I am grateful. Straying again.
My hands - I've always loved them. I was genetically blessed with long fingers and slender hands with fragile-looking skin and good nails. Oh, that sounds so braggy. This truthfulness thing is not so easy! People always commented that I should play the piano. I never did. I played the recorder, attempted guitar and used my long fingers to grab onto the things I held dear, caress the ones I love and hold open books I read.
My heart - well, it sometimes makes life very difficult for me, screwing itself into a little damp ball of sheer sadness but, in the main, it fills up with happiness and beauty and love and makes me smile and I love that it does that. It makes me play The Smiling Game which I do often, much to the embarrassment of friends. The Smiling Game entails me grinning (maniacally?) at everybody we drive past in the car. It's fabulous and is, mostly, greeted with similiar smiles from strangers in other cars.
My heart also allows me to love with an intensity that sometimes I fear will make me spontaneously combust. In a good way though. It has caused heartbreak too but I wouldn't change its propensity for love one iota. That kind of thing, those emotions that my heart allows, that's what makes me love it.
World Penguin Day
1 day ago