I am not often kind to my hands. They are stubby, small, and child-like. One of the things I fear in group conversation is the size of my hands being brought up. It has happened far more often then I’d like. Often there is no malintent when being discussed by others, but I can not help in gaining unpleasant feelings. I want to curl them away. The only kind thing that results is that people compare hands, and light contact is brought. But mostly I feel like I am being singled out as having something that is unusual and strange. My hands are not pretty. They are not dainty or long. They do not look fully grown. Often I’ve coated them in rings. Partly because I like silver and decoration. But also because I feel without them, they are ugly things (my hands). I pick at them. I bite the nails. Push at cuticles. And I forget how hard-working they are. I forget how they aid me. In touching and feeling. In creating and communicating. In functioning and living and loving. They help me to be. And I am grateful for them. To them. Their value is high, and not determined by appearance, but action. Action is what makes us and moves us. What causes things to have interest and depth. Not being pretty.