As I wake this morning, nothing much lights up. Yes, there’s the pale sun, and odd bird sounds, and a delivery truck rumbling past the house. There’s awareness, faintly, of entering another day. Instantly there are thoughts of this obligation and that, and of things to get done. In short, the usual mish-mash at the edge of nightmares.
For one with a long history of sliding into greyness, it takes an extra effort to come into the light. So I turn to the nearest object, my hand. Looking closely, I marvel at this appendage, its contours and texture. Been there all those years, functioning without my say-so. Brown spots, wrinkles, tendons, veins, spare skin, old scars, faint hair. Turning palm upward, seeing lines without knowing their gypsy meanings. Miraculously, dark thoughts — like thunder clouds — drift away unaided, revealing for split moments just this.
image: “Hände des 12jährigen Christus” by Albrecht Dürer (1471-1528), German painter, printmaker, mathematician, engraver.