Our hands, here before us, holding, reflecting, grasping, releasing. What stories do their lines tell?
Their prints a mirror of our soul’s longing?
Tactile, delicate, fingers fluttering like anemone
The pleasure of rolling paint on hands
Dark and light playing patterns upon the palms’ canvas
And then hands pressed lightly upon each other, the print,
A reflection of Me!
Since ancient times, we have witnessed the magic and miracle of ourselves in dimly lit caves, candle flames flickering, our hand prints knowing marks upon rough walls. This is me, this is us, here we are! We count with our fingers, mark time with our knuckles, craft and cleave and catch. we cradle our babes and each other’s faces, and trace lines and textures when sightless. Thank you Jill for sharing your knowledge, fascination and devotion to helping people walk their paths.