“not a work of human hands”

In meditation, hands may be positioned in a mudra or simply rest on one’s lap. The positioning of the hands is related to the energy flow. As Jim Finley mentions in an interview with Tami Simon, this is not a work of human hands. It is a human act of openness to that which is greater than us.

“We rest our hands in our lap because this is Sabbath…this is not a work achieved with human hands. And so I actively choose to rest in this wakefulness…this sustained stance that offers the least resistance to be overtaken by what I’m powerless to attain.” Jim Finley


Al meditar las manos pueden posicionarse en una mudra o simplemente descansar sobre las piernas. El posicionamiento de las manos está relacionado con el flujo de energía. Como Jim Finley menciona en una entrevista con Tami Simon, esto no es el trabajo de manos humanas. Es un acto humano de apertura hacia aquello que es más grande que nosotros.

“Descansamos nuestras manos sobre nuestras piernas porque esto es el cumplimiento sabático…no es una tarea que realizamos con manos humanas. Y elijo descansar en esta vigilia…esta postura prolongada que ofrece la más mínima resistencia a sentir aquello que soy incapaz de obtener; simplemente se da.” Jim Finley


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.