The Backs of our Hands, by Kathryn Magendie

Sometimes I think upon things that when I try to articulate them may feel uncomfortable, as when I talk about God or god, or rather, an energy who has no sense of Evil and Good, or Sin and Sinless. There are times I think about what is important to our survival—will water be the new oil? will our sun begin dimming and begin a slow progress to another ice age, will we over-develop and one day look out upon our landscapes and mourn the nature we so love and want to live around and in, and ironically, in our love of nature and our desire to live in and with it, we destroy the very natural world to replace it with our man-made one? I think about our evolving bodies and minds and how I would love to see what changes are insidiously happening as technology races ahead, as our earth transforms, our diets, our air—even by the very things we watch on television—is this creating a new society, or a different society from even my own childhood? How could it not? With technology comes responsibility, comes change, comes evolution. Is it all bad news? Of course not. But to ignore any evolution as wrong or unbelievable is imprudent, I believe, just as the idea of some all-encompassing power puppeting our every move or molecule is strange and surreal to me. What remains stationary? What is not a living breathing changing morphing wondrous living being? A rushing creek stays clear and cold and sweet; a stagnant still pool of water becomes scummy and clouded and soon dries up.

Hold up your hand. Is this the same hand you had as a child? The same hand from five years ago? Aren't there changes, ones you have not noticed along the way, but when you study your hand, you may think, "Wait, that spot/wrinkle/scar/line wasn't there before." By the very act of our aging, we evolve, or reverse evolve (de-volve?) Just as we are born helpless, wrinkled, toothless, needy, there we can go in our old age; the circle of life goes ‘round, no matter how we fight to hide it. Yes, my 50 is not my grandmother's 50, but sooner or later we have to look at the backs of our hands, the day when our creams and surgeries and vitamins and hopes and strivings still lead us to very old age (if we are lucky) and then back to where we came, perhaps to start all over again? I hope so. I want to feel it all, even the “bad” things, because that means I have lived. What an incredible journey! Be grateful with me for our Earth World’s mysteries.