Hands. Simple hands. They speak a language of their own.
What makes them tell their story, what makes them do what they do, what powers these hands, makes them move, or lay silently.
Hands. It seems to me they mean more than a name.
Hands lift you up when you are small and when tasks seem too big.
Hands can slap you down and away, when all you want is love.
Hands can teach you to survive, or keep you hopeless.
Hands….watch those hands…..feel those hands….listen.
They are speaking a message, what are they telling you.
I held a sleeping hand. Now that sounds weird, but I did. It was warm, it was caring, it was pure love. It lay part curled in total peace, gentle and silent. It lay there just for me. I held it and was filled with peace, with gratitude. I held the hand and tears slipped down knowing.
Knowing what? What did I know? It seemed I could read the message of this hand. I could now read the true message of another.
I could read or could I feel? What was I feeling?
Feeling? Hands can bring you feeling? Hands deliver our feelings?
Now that seems weird.
I always thought we had feelings, like it is a given, like it comes with our hair color and our eyes. Isn’t it part of the package? Don’t we all come with a nice assortment of feelings? Where are they stored and how do they get there? Are we responsible for our feelings?
Hands without feelings, what would that be like, lifeless, useless, hopeless?
Feelings where do they come from? Who makes feelings?
Who teaches us feelings? Is there a class on feelings when we are young? Who decides our bucket of feelings? Do we get all kinds?
Do babies come with their bucket full and little by little do they seep out? Do they seep out or does one kind overflow the others. Are little children responsible for what they carry in their bucket of feelings, or is it possible that is our job as parents? Little hands with a big bucket full of feelings.
Inside my bucket was overflowing with feelings, murky, dark, swirling, sad, scary, frightening, too little, heavy, to much out of control, vulnerable children, keeping safe too many, no one is watching, all alone, no one to tell, no one to listen, I am responsible for too many, not my children, can’t stop the flow, twisting and pulling, falling, I can’t keep holding this bucket, it is far to big for me….or is the bucket too small.
One day the bucket crashed to the ground and all my feelings fell out.
All. They lay on the ground, messy. And I lay on the ground. Empty.
Sad. No love was in my bucket. Loveless, hopeless, lost. I had carried that bucket for nothing. I had dragged it around for naught.
Me. A Bucket. Both Empty.
Empty, I reached for a hand.
In it I felt something.
I held that hand.
That hand carried me, accepted me, loved me, cared for me and waited.
With patience, It knew I would find my own way. It knew I had it in me, long before I knew.
I held the hand of God.
I M Perfect lady 