When I look in the mirror, I see all the things
I’ve wanted to change. I see
my nose that I wished were smaller,
my eyes that I wished were bigger,
my waist that I wished were symmetrical,
my hair that I wished were more voluminous,
my wrinkles that I wish hadn’t arrived
so soon.
I see the labels
I’ve been given:
thin,
bony,
white,
woman,
pretty,
young,
strong.
But when I look down at my hands, I feel
calm.
When I look at my hands, I remember
all the things they have held, and
all the things they are capable of
holding.
I remember the smooth patch on the wall of the farmhouse,
the patch I touched each night on my way to bed.
I remember the indents the violin strings left on my fingers, and
the dry, sticky rosin from the bow.
I remember the blood blisters and rips and calluses from gymnastics, and
the permanent chalky smell of my palms.
I remember braiding my teammates’ hair before our cross country races,
the strands threading through my fingers as I tried to comb gently
through the knots.
I remember holding Wanda for the first time,
her soft brown velvet,
her floppy skin,
her tiny, wet nose,
her tiny, strong heartbeat.
I remember how scratchy the hospital sheets were,
on my bed,
and on my father’s.
I look at my hands, and I see my mother’s hands,
playing piano,
kneading bread,
rubbing my father’s feet
as he lay dying.
I see my aunt’s hands,
rubbing my mother’s back
as she rubbed my father’s feet
as he lay dying.
I see my father,
as he died, holding
his hand to his brother’s heart, saying,
“It feels so good to feel your heart, to feel
your love.”
I see my own hands, grasping
at the empty bed,
hating them for taking his body
so soon.
I see my own hands, clutching
the wadded up tissues, clawing
at the photographs we had set up for
his memorial service.
I see my hands, sprinkling
his ashes across the farm,
across the waters of Mexico,
into the Alps of Switzerland.
I see my hands, pressed together
in prayer, even though I don’t know
how to pray.
I close my eyes and take
my hands to
my own heart,
so I don’t have to see,
I can just feel.
And as I feel
my heart, I feel
how strong my heart is,
how strong
and soft.
As I hold
my heart, I feel
how kind my hands are,
how kind
and loving.
As I feel my hands
holding my heart,
I wonder how it took me so long
to feel.
Abby Kraai
Dec 15, 2023
To read more about the inspiration behind this piece, or to join me in this creative journey, you can read last week’s post, or simply follow the prompt below:
Choose one part of your body, then write or create something inspired by that part. It can be a poem, an essay, a song - even a painting or a dance! Whatever the creation, let it be an exploration of your own body, and all the bodies you have been influenced by: parents, ancestors, friends, enemies, doctors, teachers, therapists, pets…
Our next prompt is: THROAT.
See you next Friday… :)
Winter Events w/ Abby
Winter Solstice Practice // Thurs, Dec 21, 6-8pm
New Year’s Day Practice // Mon, Jan 1, 1-3pm
Yoga for Beginners // Thursdays, Jan 4-25, 6-7:30pm
Mexico Retreat // Feb 24-Mar 2 (Register by Jan 1)
Beautiful. I see and feel as your words bring life to life.