“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

meditation

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

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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.

 

ONE MORE TIME

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.

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