The tiny hands of grace drip with blood

Pre-amble: The last few months have been humbling and deep. There was a terribly painful phase; S-I joint ligament strained that yielded great doubt about whether or not I can continue to teach yoga for a living, or whether or not I can drive cars anymore or sit anymore or basically live anymore.

Pain has a ruthlessness to it.

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All my words and ideas sifted into thin, thin air.

I just had to lay there, wracked, upon the gurney of the life I had constructed, and reeled.

Wracked with myself.

With the awareness of the fragility of my mechanisms,

the fragility of the notion of life's gleaming,

the fragility of the scaffolding I had erected.

Nothing between me and this hollow, this total unknowing of everything.

Ultimately this proved to be perfect, of course.

But there is no way to unfold the terror of it; how swiftly an interminable pain will take down everything that seemed enduring and solid.

This is everything I've been trying to teach myself. I hate learning it.

but it is undeniably the only way that anything lives; through the excruciating cracking of concrete, small grasses find light. The inconsequential fibers of the small tear apart the monolith of solidity, and reveal the tiny hands of grace.

The tiny hands of grace.

They are luminous, verdant, and indispensible.

and

the tiny hands of grace wield sickles and sythes, and drip with blood.