Today I thought a lot about hands. About mine, when they accompany someone, and about the hands of the people who come to my space looking for a little calm.
There is something in holding that cannot be explained in words. Hands know when to press, when to let go, when to stay still on top, like a promise that there is no hurry.
At the end of the morning, a woman stayed silent and told me that it had been a long time since anyone had listened to her without looking at the clock. It was not a compliment; it was a discovery.
I kept thinking about that. About how little it costs to give time, and how rare it has become to receive it.
Caring is, almost always, a way of paying attention. Of being entirely in the gesture one is making.
I washed my hands when I finished, with cold water, and felt the good tiredness that comes from being present.
Staying still before closing the door is also part of the work.