Through These Hands: A Metaphorical Lens on Strength, Story, and Sacred Connection.
I looked down at my hands today. Not as tools or tired extensions of a long day’s work—but as sacred story-keepers. Each callus, each wrinkle, each quiet ache tucked beneath the knuckle has something to say. And I’m finally listening.
These hands have held so much—grief, joy, babies, burdens, and brushstrokes. They’ve created art and meals and messy projects that made no sense until they did. They’ve been clenched in fear, outstretched in hope, and folded in moments of quiet surrender. They’ve aged with me, thickened with effort, softened with love.
But this time, when I studied my own, I didn’t just see me. I saw them. I remembered my grandmothers’ hands—frail and thin, soft as weathered linen. Their skin, marked by time, moved with a slowness that made every gesture feel deliberate. When they held my hand, I felt safe. I didn’t understand it then, but now I see it—how even the most fragile hands can leave the deepest imprint. Their love lived in the gentleness of their touch, in the way they smoothed a tablecloth or held a teacup like it carried the weight of memory.
Then I thought of my mother’s hands. Petite but mighty—each movement strong, purposeful, enduring. She worked every step of the way, from early morning shifts to evening cleanups. Her hands knew warehouse weight, maintenance tools, food prep lines… and still, they moved with unspoken grace. For someone so small, she carried more strength than she ever gave herself credit for. And still, what I remember most vividly is being in the garden with her.
Not the pristine rows or perfect harvests—but the rhythm of our time together. She’d dig deep holes to make space for young trees, and I’d crouch nearby, pulling up carrots too early or popping radishes from the soil like they were tiny secrets. Sometimes I got sidetracked, rearranging stepping stones in hopes of finding baby red racer snakes or rolly-pollies to play with. But no matter how distracted I got, as long as I was by her side, I was happy.
Watching her tend to the garden—her hands moving through soil, pruning, planting, harvesting—it left something in me. A kind of imprint. I didn’t need words or hugs to know that we were connected. Our bond didn’t always fit the picture of what others might call close—but it was ours. It was rooted. Honest. And tender in its own quiet way. It reminds me now that love doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it plants itself in small gestures and lets time do the telling.
Here in this moment I’m asking you…
What are the moments—muddy, quiet, unfiltered—that shaped your understanding of love?
What have your hands inherited from those who came before you—not just in form, but in function? In gesture? In spirit?
There’s a quiet inheritance passed down not only through blood—but through every touch, task, and tender moment we forget to name as sacred. These hands—mine, yours, all of ours—are more than functional. They are bridges. Between generations. Between self and others. Between effort and meaning.
So today, I invite you to pause and look at your own hands—not for flaws, but for fragments of your becoming. What have they helped you through? What have they created that no one else could? Who have they held that changed you? What do they still long to hold?
In this reflection lies a quiet kind of magick. A tether to self and to lineage. A reminder that within these two hands lies more than strength—there is story, stewardship, and soul. We carry more than we realize. And that, dear reader, is both a gift and a gentle responsibility.
An Invitation to Reflect:
What childhood memories live in your hands?
Who did you feel most connected to when working side-by-side, even without words?
How can you honor your lineage of labor, love, and legacy—your way?
Let your hands be the journal you forgot you were writing. You’ve come farther than you think. And these hands—your hands—hold the proof.
