My hands are as gnarly as the bark on an old oak tree.
But, at least they’re sun-kissed – the color of a beige antique car.
My hands soar when a story strives to alight from my funny, surprising brain, a brain that is awash with jangled memories and silly jokes, serious worries and spurts of light-filled love.
Isn’t it interesting, how our brain (with some help from our nerves) can cause us gloom as dark as a tunnel, or light brighter than a star?
As the words sprint from my knotted brain through gnarly hands to white-lined paper, a kind of spirituality occurs.
Yes, I see the spirit of me, and you, and all of us, dance and wiggle in front of me.
As a teenager would say, that’s really gnarly.
As an atheist would say, what’s spirit got to do with it?
As a humanist would say, the spirit surrounds those whose eyes are open wide.
As a writer would say, the spirit speaks through our words.
Photo by gnarly me on an early morning walk.