These hands

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These are the hands that played with a lump of gray clay for hours when I was a 10 year old girl.

These are the hands that tried to protect myself from my older sister’s smacks, scratches and hair pulling.

These are the hands that caught lizards in the backyard with the boy next door.

These are the hands that broke apart fights between my mother and step-father.

These are the hands that poured out my soul in my numerous letters to my friends.

These are the hands that comforted my 6 year old sister when I was 18, because she cried when our parents fought.

These are the hands that journaled my impotent rage and my hopelessness…and my dreams of a better life.

These are the hands that covered my eyes when I cried from the physical and psychological wounds from not only the bullies at school and work, but the bullies in my own family.

These are the hands that spent hours touching my first love, and discovered the healing power of touch.

These are the hands that spent many hours exploring the wonders of the lovers that followed.

These are the hands I offered my husband in marriage.

These are the hands that held my daughters – day and night in the early days.  As much as they ask me now.

These are the hands that stroked my daughters faces, hair and arms while they nursed.

These are the hands that comfort their hurts even when it hurt sometimes to do so.

These are the hands that have tried to placate my husband after one of his drinking excesses and put him to back to bed when he fell asleep on the bathroom floor.

These are the hands that tried to bar him from leaving so he wouldn’t drink and drive.

These are the hands that have hit walls and tables in extreme agony and despair.

These are the hands that tried to reach out to receive love that wasn’t always there to be had.

These are the hands that take pictures of my world.  That push me along to keep finding the beauty in the world around me.

These are the hands that create art to help me focus on re-building a life after so much sorrow.

These are the hands I used to hold others when they cry.

These are the hands that held my river of tears.

These are the hands that have written my stories of joy, my stories of struggle, my stories of loss and my stories of renewal.

These hands have written poetry sometimes, but never very easily.

*

I hope these hands create more joy than I could ever imagine is possible right now.

I hope these hands touch more people.

I hope these hands leave an even greater body of creative work.

I hope these hands create an even richer, more beautiful life for myself, and for my loved ones and friends.

I hope these hands stay open to all that life has to bring me, even if some of it is not easy to handle.

I hope these hands get stronger and yet even more gentle…as because they have a lot more work to do before I leave this world.

 

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About Casey

“the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’ ~ Jack Kerouac, On The Road Again
This entry was posted in Art, Art Journaling, career, Complex-PTSD, Creating, Creativity, Death anxiety, existential depression, Friendship, Grief and Loss, My writing, Observations from Life, Personal growth, Soul, Soul wounds, Stories from My Life, The Absurd Life and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to These hands

  1. joesoares says:

    I absolutely love that one! Your life story written in your hands.
    Great work.
    With love, Joe.xx

  2. Phil says:

    Wonderful sentiments, beautifully expressed.

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