These Hands

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

Wrinkles, blue-green veins, age spots,
my hands look like Granny’s did.
When I was little,
I would take her hand
and study it with wonder.
Wrinkles, blue-green veins, age spots,
and soft,
so, so silky soft.
I would stroke her hand,
and she would smile,
never saying a word
but just letting me explore
the map of her hand,
the terrain of a life lived
picking blackberries and okra
and tiny green grapes,
baking rolls and cleaning house
and handing out lollipops
to all the neighborhood children.
Granny died long ago and,
wonder of wonders,
I look at my soft-veined map of a hand
and it’s like Granny’s with
wrinkles, blue-green veins, age spots.
I’ve seen this journey.
I know where it goes.
My hands will wrinkle more,
become translucent,
earn more dark splotches.
I never grew blackberries or tiny green grapes,
but I’ve weeded gardens of lilies and irises.
I’ve pulled pokeweed and errant hackberries.
I’ve hand-washed decades of dishes,
wiped up splashes and spills,
stirred lots of pots,
written words and words and more words.
I’ve been all over this map,
this near and far of the palm,
of knuckles and fingers,
privileged to count the years of
note-taking and kneading
tying ties and lacing laces,
getting ink-stained and rose-scratched,
opening windows and closing doors,
feeling flushed foreheads,
and washing—always washing,
soaping up, rinsing off.
Love is heart-felt but hand-delivered,
and it feels like winning some sort of prize
to live long enough to become an old soul
wrapped in a baggy body of
wrinkles, blue-green veins, and age spots.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

A Pure Stream of Blue

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

There’s a sweet sadness,

a pure stream of blue

rippling with love and longing,

a catch in the heart,

a hitch in the breath,

hands open and empty

because of

love,

outstretched hands

palms up,

cradling sweet longing,

holding sweet space.

This is a knowing sadness,

a generous and gracious sadness,

a soft sadness,

full of memories of souls

who have flown,

a sadness relinquishing

what was never meant

to be held forever

but like a pillow

still holds the dips and curves

of one who has risen,

empty yet not empty,

traces of the one who is loved,

the sweet sadness

rippling in a pure stream of blue

that will always be.

-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

From Thorns to Flowers

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

I have a daydream of the present moment, the now. In that dream, we stand with hands cupped before us, holding what we thought were the thorns of the past. But they’ve turned into fragrant flowers. As we cradle these flowers in our palms, something marvelous happens: the petals become wings, and with one joyful toss of our cupped hands, we send them flying away. And when we lower our hands, we realize that, in spite of everything we let go, our hands are not empty. They are full of mystery and grace and hope enough to fuel our next steps and fill our hearts with peace.

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the Week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

Carry the Calm

Karyn Henley

hands

These Hands

A Pure Stream of Blue

From Thorns to Flowers