Recently someone told me they loved my hands and it’s only recently I’ve learned to love them myself. They are old before their time, gnarled, scarred and usually pretty grubby, but they serve me well.
Holding hands with a loved one is the most reassuring, sensual and life affirming things I can think of, but as a younger woman I hated showing my hands or allowing people to touch them. I dreaded the moment someone reached out to hold them. However recently I have learned to appreciate that the touch of skin and the entwining of fingers communicates so much and often fills the gap that words cannot express.
So of course, like so many people I was enchanted when I found out that sea otters hold hands whilst asleep to stop themselves from drifting apart. Is this an urban myth?
I hope not, because from now on, I will always hold my lovers hand when I fall asleep.
A group of otters is called a romp, which seems very fitting. These creatures create family “rafts.” The mother otter diligently attends to the young and affords protection. In the first three months of their lives, pups get onboard assistance. With this in mind, the otter certainly reflects a positive, nurturing female presence. They are playful, fun, forever on the move. Graceful both on land and in water the otter is sensitive to all vibrations and can turn every situation into a fun packed adventure.
As I write this, the sun moves into Gemini and the energy shifts to communication, playfulness and connections. From steady, earth bound Taurus we now find ourselves in a energy of being playful and lighthearted and of escaping what’s serious and rational. Thank goodness… so next on the workbench is a celebration of the otter.
Another channel of creativity I enjoy has concluded in the writing of a novella. It will never reach the bookshelves and I’m happy with that, in was an exercise in self discovery.
Here’s a snippet, yes it’s otter related and if you’d like to read more please consider becoming a paid subscriber, where not ony will I send you more of my writing, invitations to join me live at my workbench and videos of this and that. Now, time to get back to that workbench…
… sitting on the cold stone wall, feeling the surge and swell of the threatening storm, Jack watches small wavelets slapping against the harbour wall, impatiently drumming out time. The wind has picked up its feet and is thrumming its fingers through the painters and masts of the few remaining boats at dock. Underlying this percussion of expectation is the deep rumble bass of the cloud mass rising over the bruised horizon. The village has lit its guiding lanterns but there’s no sign of the returning boats. Jack winds her brown wool scarf snugly round her neck and refills her pipe as she scans the horizon with salty eyes.
She thrusts her hand deep into the pocket of her jacket and finds there the smooth wish stone. She turns it over and over in the palm of her hand before holding it up to her eye. She cannot help the small pang of disappointment when no gull flies past offering her a wish. The peddler woman’s last words, “…keep you from harm” echoes in her mind and the stone now feels heavy as lead; a charm, a trinket, a worry wort sitting silent in her palm whilst all around the tempest starts to torment the village. The growl of thunder reverberates from the buildings behind and a crackling scratch of silver lights up the sky.
“Here she blows!”
And with that, nature’s battalion of lashing rain and razor sharp wind hits the harbour wall. The air is black. The spray and spume hide everything but the closest. Jack staggers to her feet, slipping on the wet cobblestones she throws her hands out to steady herself and, remembering the charm, slips it tightly onto her finger. The gusts of wind tug and buffet her. The stinging rain keeps her head bowed and she is losing her bearings. She stumbles along the cobblestone causeway, the guiding lanterns now obscured by the driving squalls, all signs of the old fishermen are gone.
She is alone.
Her feet are unsure on the uneven surface and her woollen scarf begins to soak up the briny air and becomes sodden and heavy. It clings to her neck like a drowning man and as Jack tugs on it the wind whips the ends and forces her to lose balance again. Her scarf, long and heavy, like an anchor on a chain coils round her body and she feels like a man lost at sea as the causeway heaves under the onslaught of the storm. She loses all notion of land as her senses are obscured by nature’s fury…