Hands at 58
Coming back home to presence
My hands have attended many writing groups since the pandemic—a time where I was finally able to say the words: “I’m a writer” out loud. Each group has their own flavor, pros, cons and vibe.
Last night I returned to a group I began attending in the spring of 2021 and it felt like coming home. All the faces so familiar, so dear. Women gathering from all over the world.
Our fearless leader,
crafts deep, meaningful sessions based on a practice we both learned from a workshop taken from the force-of-nature that is Natalie Goldberg.The practice is called: “The Way of Writing: Opening the Practice of Wild Mind”. Since this is the practice I “grew up with” as a writer (in my 50’s), this is the practice that lands in my bones again and again.
I’m so grateful to be back.
The formula is simple: sit together in silence, write, then read your work aloud. No explaining (or qualifying), no comments, just a bow and a “thank you”. It’s a pen to paper practice.
Last night our focus was on embodiment, on doorways into presence.
Our first writing prompt was to breathe deeply and look at our own hands—to see them as an invitation to presence. Then, as Natalie says so often “Okay, 10 minutes. Go!” It’s such a familiar and beautiful way to practice—and I’m almost always surprised (sometimes even delighted) by what lands on the page.
Hands at 58
They look so much like my mother’s
Only bigger
With much longer fingers
Their crepey texture’s pattern
Like frost on a window
Long, spindly fingers
When splayed out
Turn into Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man
“Do you play piano?”
A question asked more times
Than I can count
Especially when I was a girl
Ropey blue veins
Pop from under the skin
As my tolerance for criticism grows
With age
My literal skin gets
Thinner and thinner
The glittering purple polish
On my fingernails
Today
Most unlike my mother
And no diamonds
On these fingers either
(Though some days I wish there were)
Today is not one of those days
Today I’m here
Settled into abundance
Realizing that my best friends
Are not made of carbon
But of flesh, bone
Fire, earth, air
And water