I am a talker, a writer of sorts, elliptic and metaphorical for sure, though whatever I write or say is usually just whittling at what it is that I might be trying to explain; a trait some have tried to cure up to a limited success. Is that why I usually fall back to personal experiences in to start with.
I also love using my hands, despite what can appear to be an slightly academic tendency, writing on a notebook with any kind of pencil, pen or stylo is still a feeling of accomplishment.
And, clumsy as I might be, it doesn’t quite matter anymore how many glasses I break on a regular basis, with how many obstacles I bump into as I seem to not look all that much at my surroundings, using my hands to do something, anything at all, it’s a grounding jolt.
It reads like an stereotype in here, the narrative of this distorted appealing feminine clumsiness of thousand of heroines who need an outside validation to feel that they deserve to even occupy a physical and real space, except that I do not need that validation and I am a klutz by my own human design, to my inability to inhabit the moment.
So, it doesn’t matter if you are good or not, doing something with your hands, concentrating on the task at hand, getting dirty, all accounts for something. Even if it is just as a plant pot.