One night, in the circle of women, I told the story of my grandmother’s hands.
Above all, the hands that were poised in patience: returning, repeating, redoing.
It was the patience part that I didn’t get for a long time. That’s what I told the circle of women.
Bereft of patience, my own hands got angry at the returning, repeating, redoing.
They wanted their freedom, to be released, to be done.
Until one cloudy afternoon (long after my grandmother was gone), in the midst of chopping vegetables, it was as if my grandmother’s hands gently covered my own.
Guiding them. Slowing them down. Teaching them patience.
Asking me to consider, simply consider, that the mysteries of the universe were hidden in the layers of an onion or the leaves of an artichoke.
Awakening me to the possibility that my hands held a kind of creative wisdom that my brain couldn’t quite fathom.
As I came to the end of my story I knew that every woman in the room had listened to me and loved me just as my grandmother had.
Every woman in the room, in fact, was a grandmother in that moment.
Each truly seeing and celebrating the grandmother power circling amongst us.
Each gladly initiating one another into the creative wisdom that flowed through our hands.
Each proudly carrying the legacy of her own grandmother’s hands.
And not caring that some of us were 30 or 46 or 62 or 39 or 57.
Not caring that some of us would never have children or be grandmothers in the literal sense of the word.
Recognizing and resting in the truth that grandmother power and wisdom was available to each of us. Right here. Right now.
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