I always think of one of my past art teachers when I’m going through a difficult time in my life.
His hands were the most beautiful hands in the world to me. They were gnarled like tree roots, sanded down from years of smudging and shading, and covered in small white scars from paper cuts and X-Acto knives. His hands were like my old stiff kneaded eraser I molded over and over when it got covered with black graphite and charcoal. It was hard to contain my awe whenever his hands flew across a pad of paper with such elegance that only a seasoned artist could do. His arthritis in his old hands scrunched up his face in horrible pain yet he continued to draw. I wanted and still want those hands so badly and those striking scars and hill-like calluses.
And I know now that the pain I go through in life will be balanced with the beautiful and strong and it is worth it.