Walking With Open Hands
As morning dawns, my husband is ill, my daughters struggle on their educational journeys, our small business is gasping after yet another setback, and I’ve received a couple of terse emails reminding me that I’m a back-burner priority. I start the morning, and the week, depleted.
Lacing up my shoes, I take myself on a walk in the bright cold of morning. Thought after thought—of what was, what is, what might be—ravages each step. I’ve never related to “live in the moment” adages: as a sentient being, given both memory and vision, I choose to live fully in all times given me. So past, present, and future travel with me on my walk.
At one particularly troubling thought, I find I had opened my hands. When my exposed palms meet the chill of morning, a thrill—of both loss and relief—passes through me. After that, I determinedly open my hands to thought after racing thought: releasing my pain into the cold, hard, light of morning. The practice of opening my hands doesn’t “fix” anything. I still hurt. But there’s a cleanness and a connection in the pain. I remember that it’s all part of Something. I recall what is mine to carry and what is not.
This month, I will walk with open hands.
How do you live with pain and uncertainty?