Grandma's Hands

The old woman with heart wide open welcomes me home…. Sit down. Rest. Night wrapped its arms around me as I watched her shuffle around the kitchen looking for the tin of gingersnaps.

Now she sat in her rocker... one leg out, the other under… picking up her crochet… fingers moving over the thread like a spider weaving its web… grandma’s hands…

How many babies had she guided into the world - first contact in those hands?

How many gardens had she planted and hoed - arms getting browner in the summer sun?

Those hands yanking out baby teeth as they loosened, wrapping scarves around resisting necks, kneading dough as if it was a feather, peeling apples in one curled motion into a pie wedged into perfectly equal triangles - no room to argue over the biggest piece.

Those hands gathering eggs from under the hens without disturbing them. Wielding an axe cleanly for kindling. Circling rosary beads in her lap - lips moving silently with the rhythm of the words… over and over.

The pile of mending and darning always there. A torn knee, a hole in a heel, a shirt button gone - all receiving a scolding as her hand repaired like new again. The tightness of a newly sewn button… the fresh darn of a sock was comforting in a way. If the damage was too great, her scissors would carve out little squares that later reappeared transformed on a quilt. Sitting for hours, poking her needle in and out of the frame… making little rivers of thread through all those patches of colours. She seemed in a trance… her hands circling in and out, over and under, looping the stitches across and back. Sometimes humming a strange sound between her teeth - it wasn’t a whistle and it wasn’t a hum - it seemed to come from far down inside her and float out on the air….

Other times, those hands picked up jars to make teas and poultices, healing potions and ointments. Sometimes washing and preparing bodies for burial. Those hands were messengers of life and death… rough and ready to do what needed to be done. Those hands.

Now my hands

are the most honest

way I speak

making love

visible

when I have

no other way to

reach my heart

my hands can heal

creating beet chocolate brownies

turning over a blueberry crepe

swirled with whipped cream

as an offering

to feed you

because food is medicine

and my hands make good medicine.

on a du coeur grandma said

we have heart

yet lose heart

I am warmed and cooled by others I am nourished by traditions and wisdoms preserved by many if I see farther, it is because I am standing on the shoulders of others.

Once upon a time to come

there were peoples

who knew what they knew

they knew that their heritage on this land was their power

and they knew how to honor

their spiritual connections

with their ancestors

the women

recovered their powers of creation

in their bodies

in their spirits

in their dreams

and the people remembered

that woman is the medicine

the original power

of earth and moon and stars

and they saw what they might become

and the distant pasts

became one

with the near futures

as stories were shaped

from that ancient place

deep within where the Mother lives

to go to that place

of remembering

is to be re-membered

sometimes it means

starting with what is

darkest

and wild

and dangerous

uncovering stones

paying homage

to the sacred buried there

sometimes it means

communion

with solitude

to find right relation

and affirmation

of the unloved

self

and sometimes

a song on the wind

stirred the hearts

of many

and the People

recognized its beauty

in each other

hearts opened

to action

this is how the People

became strong again

because in that moment

was remembrance

and so it continues...

Thank you grandma