Hands

Your hands capture my attention
as they contain a world in and of themselves.
Old, cracked, wrinkly –
they tell a story of a life of hard work…
Cooking, cleaning, washing
from sun up
to sun down
these hands have given themselves
in the service and care of others
The muscles store memory
of how to chop the vegetables
how to stir the soup
how to wash the dishes, the clothes, the floors
how to sweep the dirt outside
that will inevitably find its way back in tomorrow.

Perhaps these hands have served with love,
or maybe from a sense of duty,
or maybe as a simple way to survive,
doing what needs to be done
day in and day out;
the work that everyone needs
but refuses to do –
your hands are strong
because they know what it takes to survive.

And now I sit amazed,
staring at these old hands
that are learning new tricks,
proving that it is never too late
to do something for yourself,
to empower yourself,
to take back a little control.

Hands that have held
babies, brushes, brooms,
forks, knives, and spoons
now learn how to hold
a pencil.
Such a simple instrument,
smaller than many you have worked with,
yet so foreign to one denied
the opportunity of education.
This small piece of wood and lead
is a key
to a whole new world
of words and power
knowledge and freedom.

Hands that have
chopped, stirred, washed, and swept
now learn how
to write.
A seemingly simple task,
but difficult for hands
that have been formed by years
of hard manual work.

So we start slowly.
I hold the pencil
and show you how,
then you try yourself.
Baby steps, back to the basics;
but you know patience and endurance
as it is imbedded in the very skin
that now surrounds your newest tool,
your newest challenge….
and so we breathe
and take another slow step.
Practicing writing
starting with simple shapes –
circles, arrows, triangles
to get used to connecting
the led to the paper
with the motions of the hand.

My hand over yours –
young and old have so much to absorb
from one another,
and I am profoundly and painfully
aware of my privilege –
the privilege of having smooth hands
that have been prevented from knowing
days full of cooking, cleaning, caring for others;
the privilege of having hands
that know how to hold a pencil,
and how to use that instrument
to write down
my own thoughts, desires,
hopes, fears…
All I can do is humbly offer
my own hands now
for the service of yours,
and hope that a few of your wrinkles
transfer to me,
so that I never forget
the pain or the privilege.

Two hands now
working together
we practice the strokes of the pencil.
And then you fill a page
of exercises by yourself,
often stopping to relax your hand
which is not accustomed
to this new task called writing.
Stretch the fingers
wiggle them around
in and out, in and out
roll your wrists
slow and stiff movements
working against years and years
of muscle memory.

And we continue on
to the vowels –
Aa Aa Aa Aa
capital and lower case
first you trace
a line that has been written
and then continue to fill
a page all your own.

What are you thinking
as you learn to write
one letter at a time,
to recognize and read
one letter at a time?
Do you think of the day
you will finally be able
to sign your name?
Do you imagine
being able to help your children
with their school work?
Do you think of all those thoughts
you would love to share
and have recorded?
Or maybe it’s the simple anticipation
of the freedom gained
in the power to write if you so desire.
With each letter
you learn to write
and to read.
Little by little,
you are opening the world
and yourself.

Ee Ee Ee Ee Ee
As our time comes to and end
and you finish your exercises for the day,
I stand in wonder and awe of your hands –
hands that today
have filled 3 pages with exercises,
hands that are learning
and finally serving you,
hands that refuse
to give up and give in,
but instead seek to add
a few more lines,
a few more wrinkles,
in new spots
from new tasks.

Today I saw the hands of God
using the most simple and basic of tools
in the early stages of creation,
the dawn just about to break over the horizon,
and offered gratitude
for the opportunity to be here
In the beginning…
and it was good.

Gift/1

On a similar theme of vocation, I think I am realizing that one of my vocations (because I think there are many ways I and we are called to live and be in the world, not just one) is to share. Maybe that seems simple, or like it should be everyone’s vocation, and in a way it is. But I feel called to share all I am with the world, in the hopes of helping the world and each unique manifestation of the spirit in the world learn who it, he, or she truly is. And that is certainly not to say that I have any answers or that there even are answers, but rather there are always more questions and insights that aid the process or add fuel to the flame. And along with this sharing is a kind of bridging of worlds, helping to spread understanding and compassion, when one can connect and see we are all part of the same body and spirit. With new insights and understanding one then lives differently and loves differently. This is why I write, or at least what leads me to share the writing that I do. I am called to share because all that I am and have been given is gift, and not a gift for me to keep to myself. But this can also be a scary vocation because in giving I always run the risk of the gift being misinterpreted, which it inevitably will be. But I offer all I have anyway, and hope that even in potential misunderstanding or rejection it will enter into the collective consciousness and be a ripple, or buzz, or stone in the shoe that doesn’t let you quite walk the same way anymore.