My Hands

My hands hold folded prayers in a sacred chapel, my thumbs two tall matching doors keeping track of the seeking that goes in and the finding that comes out. These faithful tireless guardians remind me that miracles are lined up and waiting to come through them whenever I am willing to bear witness to them.

They are perfect complements, my hands, each one outgiving the other in a show of gratitude so immense there has never been a thought of keeping score, a question of who’s doing more. Masters of timing, expression and nuance, their performances together are flawless, always captivating their standing room only audience with their grace and majesty.

I unfold my Self into my own hands and watch them pass me back and forth, stretch me, and then knead me gently as if I am cosmic dough for the celestial bread they are making and they are carefully and lovingly insuring that I rise.

Copyright © Bentley Kalaway 2009