I crave an earthy spirituality, fingers dug deep into the soil. I ache for a life lived with open hands. These closed fists, with all their clinging and wringing out of breath, grasping after certainty as if after fists full of water, they thirst to let the river run right through.
These hands have clung to all manner of empty promises. They’ve closed tight around money, men, and metaphor and none of these were mine to own. Not even my life is my own to grasp. Money spent, lovers left behind, beliefs now ringing hollow, all of it gone in spite of my clenched fists.
Now I’ll plunge my hands deep into the dirt, tears streaming into soil; I’ll feel the ground beneath me. I will carry truth with open hands. I crave an earthy life in all it’s sweaty, sexy, sacred, vital, redemptive, renewing, grounded, ancient, brand new-ness where we all turn soil over seed with warn, weathered, open hands.