Some of my earliest memories of my Mother are her hands. Whether they were sewing, cooking, knitting or gardening, I remember her hands.

When she talked, she used them, and even though I can't always see them clearly, I see the movement of them. When she re-buttoned my shirts, or brushed my hair, her hands never grabbed, but there was just something about how she held onto to my fly-away hair or my mismatched buttons.

Once in awhile, I look at my hands, or one of my nieces' hands for just a moment, I see Mother's hands. Hands hold my fiber and type on the keyboard, wash the wool and stir the dye pot, hold the crochet hook and pet the cat. I love that some folks still call what we do "handwork", and lately I have been thinking about a time when people gathered to do this in a social setting.

Oh.....that is our guild meetings! But just not often enough for my heart - and my hands which have not been doing enough of it lately. When I watch people knit, crochet, spin or weave, I look more to their hands than to their faces. It is a dance I see, the fingers, the tools moving to a rhythm that comes from within the person. Working Hands, I call them.

So, when you sit and knit, if you can, watch your hands, watch the needles, or when you spin, look at your fingers and the fiber in them as the dance begins, find that rhythm and you might be surprised at the peacefulness that washes over you.

Spin On, and find your own meditation.