One of the first concerns that came to my mind after I was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis was what was going to happen to my hands? As a lifelong designer and avid cook my hands are essential for doing the things that make me most happy in life. Doing Google searches for "rheumatoid arthritis hands" did nothing to quell my fears. In fact, seeing the image search results only made me more nervous. Over the years, however, my hands have continued to show me that they are strong, even as they withstand the worst of the chronic disease with which I live. My hands may not be able to do what they used to--opening a jar has become next to impossible--but they are a true testament to the power of adaptation. My hands continue to chop, cut, stir and mix...and when they are not able to do as much, they happily pull out the food processor and adapt recipes accordingly. I do not spend as much time in the kitchen as I once did, but when I do it feels like a true treat. I love the smells, the tastes and the textures. When my hands are doing well enough to grind spices, I pull out an old grinding stone that I inherited from my great-grandmother. I only have a few memories of her, but remember her walking with a pair of crutches. While no one can tell me what actually afflicted her, I have been told that her hands were very crooked and always hurt. Might she have lived with rheumatoid arthritis as well? I will never know, but when I hold the pestle, the same one she used to hold every day as she worked in the kitchen, I feel a special connection to her. And I tell myself that if she could get through the pain and disability, so can I.

My hands are special because they are strong and pretty. I swim with them, I draw with them and I color and write with them. I plant flowers with my hands, ride my bike with them, pet my dogs with them and best of all I hug with them. My hands are special because they belong to me.

My father's hands were small and graceful. I inherited my mother's long fingers, but not the spatulate nails which kept her hands from being beautiful. They both used their hands in artistic and creative ways: my mother to make beautiful needlework and grow vibrant flowers; my father to take photographs, do carpentry and woodwork. I remember their hands in vivid detail--how they looked and how they felt. I also remember my husband's hands, my sweetheart's hands and all of my children's hands; hands are what I notice first about people. My hands may well be the most-commented-on parts of my anatomy. While playing eight instruments during my thirty-five-year career as a folk singer, I often heard "Your hands are so beautiful." Once, years ago, before my hands became gnarled (my poet friend says "burled"), my oldest daughter's friend noticed our hands together and exclaimed to Laurel "you have your mother's hands." Laurel's daughter, Annalise, anxiously asked her mom, who wears a coiled silver thumb splint, "Will your hands get like Grandma's?" There are times when I get angry at my hands because they will not do what I want them to do. But there are times when I feel tender and loving toward them. How could I not? These hands have detasseled corn; planted and pressed flowers; they've sewed and knit clothes for my family; they've rolled out crusts, stirred soup pots and chopped vegetables; caressed, diapered, and bathed my babies and their babies; held those babies' hands crossing streets; held cold cloths to their fevered brows; and driven long miles to go to them in crises. My hands have cleaned up gross messes; stroked pets and lovers; played a dozen instruments; and trimmed the hair of a husband, a son, daughters and a sweetheart. They have written books; taken thousands of photographs; applauded friends and colleagues on stage; and they have held the hands of my great-grandchildren.