Hands / Las Manos

A person’s hands tell one’s story, a tangled web of oceans and deserts.  And love flows through the delicate outline of the fingers on its way to the heart where it is finally home.

Las manos de una persona cuentan la historia de ésta, un telaraña enredado de océanos y desiertos.  Y el amor fluye a través del contorno delicado de los dedos camino al corazón donde finalmente encuentra su hogar.



by Mark Nepo

When willful, we think

that truth moves from 

our head to our heart 

to our hands.

But bent by life, 

it becomes clear that 

love moves the other way: 

from our hands to our 
heart to our head.

Ask the burn survivor 

with no hands who dreams 

of chopping peppers and 

onions on a spring day.

Or the eighty-year-old jazz 

man who loses his hands 
in a fog.

He can feel them 

but no longer entice them 

to their magic.

Or the thousand-year-old 

Buddha with no arms 

whose empty eyes will 

not stop bowing to the 

unseeable center.

Truth flows from us, 

or so we think, only 

to be thrown back 

as a surf of love.

Ask the aging painter 

with a brush taped to his 

crippled hand—wanting, 

needing to praise it all 

one more time.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s