My right hand for 57 of my 58 years has grasped and carried things, written stories, poetry, and even my name. The last year a tremor has made those treasures all but impossible and it remains hidden in my pocket to keep others from staring. As my little heart unfolds, my spirit rises and dispels what the mind sees, I look at my hand and see not the tremor but her precious heart. And so a little paint set, sitting on a path against a tree, I whispered softly, "Dance." And a little hand and wings soared from the mountain top to the clouds. A giggle spirit danced atop the lake below.
Celebrate the glorious perfection that IS.