Clean Hands and a Pure Heart

I woke up this morning to a vision of African American women of varied ages lined up with their hands folded gently in front of them. The outdoor setting was warm and welcoming. All was silent except for the singing of birds and the whisper of wind winding its way through distant trees. The air smelled of herbs and medicinal plants that lined the path where these women stood. It was peaceful and serene. Although no one spoke, periodically, I could hear a deep cleansing breath and a sigh being released from a heavy heart into the universe. Other women lined the path of waiting women as they moved almost imperceivably slowly toward a long table in the distance. It was set with a variety of hand-crafted bowls, utensils and pitchers. As each of the lined-women approached the standing women, into her hands, now open and cupped, was scooped an herbal infulsed exfoliating cream. The receiving women instinctively knew to gently massage the cream into her own healing hands. Futher down the path, the next standing woman stood with a warm, wet, white cloth. She gently removed the residue from the hands of the waiting women and dropped the soiled cloth into a woven basket. Each waiting woman moved forward toward a pump where she washed her hands with a dollop of soap as the water poured over her smooth softened skin. She then was greeted by another woman who carefully dried her hands and dripped a few drops of healing ointment into the hollow of the hands of her sister. Each woman proceeded to the table where they waited in silence to be served a communal meal.

Although this was a beautiful image to awaken me to the start of a new day, it felt very real. It looked very real. In some ways, perhaps it was the real desire of my heart. Someday, I wish to lift the burdens of weary, worn women whose hands tell a story of secret sacrifices. As women of color, we carry with us the wounds of our spirits, minds, bodies and souls. Many of our burdens go unspoken. When they are spoken, they are often tempered with love. Our hands work and weave into others the strength and courage that we pass along, often without even knowing how powerful our touch can be. We dry tears, wipe away sweat, sweep away crumbs, bind wounds, and give guidance away from danger. Our hands are the uncelebrated heroes on the battlefields of life.

Our hands tell a story of where we have been and what we have experienced. As we age, our hands change. Our veins become more prominent, our skin becomes dry. Our hands display opening the scars of our past. They bear the memories and marks of having worked tirelessly throughout time. Our hands are our messengers in times of joys and sorrows. They reach out; they hold; they grasp; they cling; they caress; they comfort.

One day, I would like to celebrate others by honoring their hands. I would like to let others know that their work has not been in vain. I would like to offer a labor of love for the hands of my senior sisters. In doing so, I hope they will feel the love and warmth of a healing touch that resonates within them and reaches the depths of their hearts to purify some of the buried pains

of their past.