Hands of Change
By Natalie Gamble
The realization that I had left my home and gone to a foreign country did not register in my mind the minute I landed in England; rather it came in waves of change. The ebb and flow of the differences crept up on my understanding of life in my not-quite-an-adult mind as I flew further away from the United States and closer to England. On the plane, in my jet-lagged stupor, I fought for consciousness. I struggled to understand the jumble of consonants that make up Icelandic. The stewardess babbled incoherent nothings concerning a glass of water, or maybe it was about the unrecognizable specimen they expected me to eat. I am from a small town in Minnesota, not even big enough to have much diversity. In my groggy state I was barely conscious of the fact that I had never heard Icelandic before, and barely understanding that this would only be the beginning of the changes. I fell back into a restless sleep thinking of what lay before me, and for one fleeting moment of what I was leaving; my mother’s arms hold me, my father’s hands press into my shoulder blades. Good bye embraces of love and concern.
The first time I fully realized where I was and what I had actually done I was in the Lake District on Coniston Water with the forty-three other adventure seeking students who would be my family for eight months. Much of our time in the Lake District was spent out doors, usually in or around the water. I watched myself in my reflection on Coniston Water, the gentle ripples in the water forming wrinkles in my twenty year old skin that have yet to come. I felt like I could wear those wrinkles, even at my age, after the long journey from Minnesota to England. I had not rested fully since my arrival; I was constantly moving. The bus ride from London to Birmingham, a blur of landscape, drained what remained of my brain’s ability to absorb and comprehend my surroundings. My body cried for sleep but my eyes, the curious and rebellious muscles that they are, would not allow me the renewing arms of a good slumber. The days following my arrival in Birmingham were a succession of bumbling events, until once again I found myself on a bus, on my way to the Lake District. I had come to England a student, but at that moment, if asked, I would have to say I was a professional vagabond. The Lake District was the place where I stayed the longest in the first week; it was there that I found myself face to face with the future me, wondering. Maybe the future me would be satisfied with a home. Maybe I would be content, instead of the aimless drifter that I had become.
I stretched my hands toward my reflection, as if to grab hold of my wise and sure future self, never letting go. I plunged my hands into the water and let out a tiny breath of air. Partly from the shock of the bone-chilling water that turned my hands a ghostly white, revealing the delicate map of blue veins spanning my hands, but also because of the giant ripples that distorted the wrinkles of my future self into ugly cracks. My reflection was unrecognizable, not the comforting hope of my future.
With my paling hands still submerged in the wind-agitated Coniston Water, Stephanie, who is beside me says, “English water.” I am touching English water and asking myself how English water is different? As if water can feel different. It looks the same as water in Minnesota, it even feels the same. I still get that throbbing feeling in my hands like I do when I psyche myself up to venture into Lake Superior. I already know that the throbbing will lead to a numb, tingly feeling if I leave them in there long enough.
After rescuing my hands from the numbing cold, I rubbed from fingertip to palm. My swishing-quick hands massaged the life back into themselves. They are my father’s hands, small and stout. My stubby sausage fingers are an exact replica, down to the tiny patches of thick, tough calluses on our fingertips. His, guitar-worn calluses, and mine a combination of fickle violin, mandolin and guitar playing, slowly fading for want of wear. My father’s hands look strange; they do not belong thousands of miles from that small town, from that house in the trees, from Minnesota. These hands have to be mine in this new place.
My first week in England I was overly aware, like a pacing watchdog, on the guard for any sign of change from my life in Minnesota. All of my expectations of what would be different seemed ridiculous, but I could not help but ask myself; what is different? Is it the two separate faucets for hot and cold on my sink for which I still have not been able to find the perfect balance in temperature; always shocking me with either an icy shower or a boiling blast of water, never in between? Perhaps it is the beautifully worn brick buildings that line the road I walk every day to class?
Slowly I adjusted to my new life in England. The trivial lifestyle differences that had once challenged and puzzled me started to look familiar and comfortable. I could get on a bus and get to my destination without an hour long detour. I could even navigate my way through the bustling streets of the City Centre. I finally felt sure of where I was going.
Just when I thought I had my new life figured out I fell; hair flying, hands batting at the air desperately searching for something secure, face down, stumbling. My body in that moment did not seem to belong to me. I was surprised at its dramatic sprawl, wondering how it had managed to strike me down in such a precarious position, reminding me how pitiful I really am. Once I got over the shock of finding myself plastered against the wet slime of leaves and cold unforgiving pavement, I gathered myself up feeling the ache of what felt like busted knee caps and the sting of raw skin. My hands had scratches where they skidded across the pavement as I tried to save myself from the slicing-skin stones on the sidewalk, which embedded themselves in my hands. Little by little I have found that my hands wear the signs and scars of my learning, of experience, of change. They will always be my father’s hands but it is what I do with them that make them mine, even when I fall; I am the one who must pick myself up again.