Happy Monday, warrior women! I woke up this morning thinking about the hand dream I’d had and feeling that I’d missed the moment to write the poem that was streaming in the realm of my subconscious awareness. So, I’m just going to capture what was the essence of my dream:
I thought about my hands
“Grandma’s hands go to work on Sunday mornings. Grandma’s hands picked me up each time I fell”
I loved that song by Bill Withers and it was jamming in my mind and for whatever reason it caused me to rejoice in my soul as my fingers took to the keyboards this morning. My thoughts turned to mothers, grandmothers, aunts and cousins, sisters and friends, who are loved and have been mothers who love .
My mother’s hands are the hands of the caregiver, who soothes a broken limb, a bee sting and a fall from grace. My mother’s hands brings comfort to those who are overwhelmed, sitting in a Sunday Church service. My mother stands ready to serve with comforting hands.
Even though ole Arthur (arthritis) tried to intervene in my joy of spending time with my granddaughter over the weekend, I pushed him away until the next time , in favor of creating memorable life moments with my grand daughter whose wail of protest was that “grandma” was feeding her too much! 🙂
My mother’s hands cooks nourishing meal, cleans, wipes away tears. My mother’s hands brings life to her children who will continue the legacy of her compassionate hands.
It’s all about LOVE.
Hands are God’s creative instrument of connection to our soul purpose for being. Your hands are the linkage to the women in the world passed down through generations of mothers who smile someplace on high from the Heavens. I am humbled by loves’ promise that gathers in the midst of a Fall harvest…