The other night I woke up afraid, and trembling, and Maria asked me, as she often does when this happens, if I knew the fears were not true, not real. I never really know what to say because I do know they are not real, yet I feel them once in awhile. Does any part of you, of your body, know these fears are not true?, she asked me the other morning.

I thought about it, and the answer came to me immediately. Yes, I said. My fingers. My fingers know these fears are not real, not the truth about me or my life. My fingers know the truth. Yes, of course, she said, your fingers. I see  your fingers flying over the keyboard, she said, writing books, blogging, almost apart from you. Of course your fingers know the truth.

This was a somewhat mind-altering revelation for me, because my fingers are my voice, in many ways.

When I have been frightened, my fingers spoke of strength.

When I was without hope, my fingers told of hope and promise.

When I wanted to run or hide, my fingers wrote of courage and conviction.

When I was alone, my fingers wrote of love and connection.

When I was in pieces, my fingers wrote of better times, of promise, of the creative spark.

When I was lost, my fingers sang of a spiritual life, and led me, blind, forward in the dark.

My fingers have always know the truth. That I am good. That I am strong. That noone, noone’s news can take

from me the certain knowledge that life is beautiful, life is a gift.

My fingers have always told my stories, and written their poems, and seen me better than

I have seen myself.

I never thought about my fingers, but I am grateful to them and love and appreciate them

because they are my song, my story, my self, and I never thought to trust them before and to listen to them.

And I will not forget them again.