Earlier today I read a comment left by my Mom on my previous post. Something she said resonated so deeply that I decided to meditate on it this evening. Those who have passed beyond the veil or reside far from me but who I feel stand by me at all times. Hands that gently guide me, offer me strength and protect me. Hands that held me from my earliest days and will undoubtedly be there to embrace me when my finals days have finished.
If my eyes are closed I can practically feel the strong yet incredibly gentle grip of my Papa on my right shoulder. On my left, there are overlapped hands, one smaller but by no means dainty and the larger hand is heavier, O’ma and O’pa. I never met her and I do not understand it but sometimes there is a gentle brush of a lady’s hand across my forehead, my heart says it must be Eddie, my great-grandmother. I know there must be countless others standing all around me, but these hands have been there for as long as I can remember. These hands helped me take my first steps, paint my first art piece, write my first paper, and pray my first prayer.
The hands of those still living surely must be with me as well. A comforting hand that pulls me out of the dirt and brushes me off, Daddy. The hand that rubs my back when panic attacks grip me unexpectedly, Mama. The hands that grip mine tightly when I don’t believe in myself and reassure me, Nana and Mimi. The hands that ruffle my hair then pull me down a rabbit hole, my little brother and his partner! The hands that placed a ring on my own, that were bound with a cord that symbolized the intertwining of our lives as one, the strong hands of my husband.
I am blessed to know that even as I walk my own path and explore this overgrown lane I do not walk alone. I walk with the hands of my loved ones and my ancestors clasping my shoulder and giving me their strength, love, and hope. Unseen but forever present.