Getting my hands dirty

Sure, the cemetery cuts the grass and keeps the graves neat but it had been a while since anybody brought flowers. When my sister was here, we bought two bunches, one for Grandma and one to split for Grandpa and our dad. I had trouble even finding the cemetery at first, I'd forgotten that the roads had been reconfigured to accommodate the college and some new housing tracts. And once there, I had trouble finding the graves, having driven past them first, then back tracking.

The vessel that holds the flowers is inverted when not in use and the casing that holds it becomes filled with debris and roots. I fished a hunting knife out of the back of my car and with some other tools, we were able to work each one free. My sister filled each with water and we set about adding the flowers. She walked off to leave a flower with Uncle Louie. We spent a few minutes with our old folks and then moved on, looking at the graves of our parish priests. We talked about classmates buried here, and the relatives of friends.

It's not often that I get my hands dirty, dark moist earth under my fingernails. As a kid this seemed to be a constant case, but now, moving paper around and punching keyboard keys leaves my hands decidedly clean. Before turning on a spigot at the cemetery to wash, I thought of this earth that lies above these who were so much a part of my life and think this may be all that is left of their physical presence, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

But I am happy to report that this was not the first time my hands were dirty this week. One day, we had arranged for a workshop at an art studio to learn more about painting with acrylics. S, my sister and I were presented with three fresh canvases and with the help of our dynamic host, we applied layer upon layer of color in designs that originated in our imaginations. It was interesting to see these ideas morph into dimensional works, all so different, all imbued with a sense of beauty only we could have given them.

In three hours time we each had work that was our own. And even though I washed before we went to lunch, I noticed the colors of my work were still present on my hands as we ate. Over the course of the next day the colors disappeared without my noticing.

One thing's for certain in all of this. It wouldn't be bad to have dirty hands more often. It seems natural for us to work the earth, to keep us rooted and in touch with what is. But we must also engage the inherent messiness of creating to facilitate what might be and even what might be beautiful. Getting my hands dirty then becomes something more.