I take care of my hands because they take care of me.
They sort things out.
Fix things.
Smooth things over.
Stroke hair, hold hands other than my own.
Comfort me. I can trust them.
For more months than I can count now, my hands have been leading me to the keyboard of my piano, spelling out not QWERTY but C-D-E. I spell in sol-fa, avoid plain words, and everything has a rhythm in a beat. Sometimes I wonder why I've taken myself down this path so twisting, everything unclear. Yet my contrary, questioning nature knows that I would never take the easy option - nor the straight-forward, either.
There have been things I've needed to sort out, fix and render before I can return to writing words. And somehow, in this yearly glimpse of spring, I feel my difficulties simmering after the over-flow. Soon, I can begin.
No comments:
Post a Comment