Dancing upon the taste buds, a chef's work delights the most refined of palates. Yet a less refined palate would have no less of an appreciation for the delicacy of a French pastry.
Meticulously ground into cold pressed linseed oil the purest of pigments shimmer vibrantly along the corridors of an architectural wonder. It is a work of art contained within a work of art. A child's crayon scribbles are of no less value than Monet's oils.
Metaphorically written pros have been known to move the nations. Wars have been fought and nations have been born under the allspice of a feather quill. Did not God himself write upon the stone with his finger? The world moves by words.
What then, I ask, is the work of
my hands? I like to think of myself as an artist and a poet, and I certainly enjoy food, but the works of my hands in these has yet to prove itself. I put paint on a canvas and call it art, but a child's crayon probably would sell for more. And how I wish I could write to move people, but I misplace the words. I certainly can't write upon stone.
I ask again, what is the work of my hands?
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| Paix Bouche = Peace Mouth |
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| Fighting crime at nigh, fighting micro-organisms by day. |
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| It will probably be the only time in our careers that we are allowed to practice medicine in flip flops and tee-shirts. We take full advantage of it. |
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| My health education activity went well. |
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| My co-clinic coordinator and myself after a successful clinic. |
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| Returning from the clinic with the afternoon shift. (I wasn't able to get a group photo of the morning shift.) |
This is the work of my hands. My work is that of the children. They are the stone tablet that I write upon, the canvas of crayon, the delicacy of life. My work may not be visible to the world, but the future of the world is held in my hands.
