my mother’s hands

my mothers hands held me, carried me, consoled me and wiped my tears. they cooked for me, cleaned for me and were always there to show me how.

how they are strong
how i can see the life they have lived
how they have revealed the essence in her that is also in me.

for a while, i pushed her away.  i didn’t want her to hold me, and the anger was fierce inside of me as she denied the me that wanted to rise
the me that didn’t look like her
the me that was different, experiences not the same
the me that i denied myself.

but somewhere between there and here – between the anger and the rebellion and the love and homage – my hands began to look like hers …

as they held my sons and wiped their tears
as they let go of the bicycle seat and watched them ride off into the motion of life.

somewhere between there and here, i started to look like her – i started to speak like her and my mannerisms were hers, all along so very different.

this is the space where we are one
in our womanhood
in our motherhood
in our denial and in our survival
in all of it – the good, the bad and the ugly.

my mothers hands, my mothers hands such grace, such beauty, such ease, such strength, such courage, such fearlessness, always in love and always in peace and always in presence

… always here with me.