These are my hands, sometimes of stone and sometimes of sand, fastidious in the sweet earth making room for trees to run deep and grow high, knuckle deep in bike grease as I explore these simple and wondrous metal machines of efficient transportation, lightly grasping the pen to jot notes of love and redemption from the aimless effervescence of my heart, curving smooth wet clay up into usable vessels reminiscent of craftsmen roots long forgotten, typing plastic keys here to shift photons electrons across through and around assembled polymers and bits of metal to convey an incessant theme to you that I cannot let go of, bleeding as I cut myself with misdirected misaligned force while trying to do well, fingers on my forehead with my eyes closed to the patterns I repeat and wish I could transcend, cupping warm water to propel myself slowly across the pool and back in the warm luxurious open night of northern California paradise, turning knobs and making gestures and stirring batter, trying to embrace and grasp it all while my mind quietly works to let go.
If I do enough with my hands, will I be able to create a better world? Can I fix, smooth, patch, massage, sprinkle, and trace my way through the years of my life? Can I create the meaning I'm always searching for? Perhaps I can learn to find the calm of mind that comes with purposeful action, and the calm actions that come with a purposeful mind.
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