Hands

Our fortnightly Silent Hour starts with a short reflective reading and for this mornings I was drawn to Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem Daily which is from Tender Spot. it reflects on all we do on a daily basis with our hands. She cites simple things which we all do but which we, all, I think can do with more intention. Just the act of folding washing can be seen as a spiritual act rather than as one of those necessary chores.

Yesterday I walked on the Long Mynd and I was suddenly conscious (probably due to the poem) of how frequently I use my hands to gather information about the landscape. I know the temperature of the water, the texture of the hawthorn trunk, the flexibility of the reeds as they parted to enable my trailing fingers to pass.

It was my Mother’s hands I most minded being cremated. I saw my Mother thorough the generosity and wisdom of her hands. She used them to create our landscapes through art, baking, polishing, gardening, clothing us and by showing love. She protected us with the strength of her hands.

Today I will endeavour to do the same.

 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *