My fingers curl in wild abandon, my knuckles arched like the spine of a cat.
There is something so gentle and honest about the curling of our fingers. It reminds me of a newborn baby- her tiny, silky fingers curling around just one of our own. Her fingers touch the skin of the future. Our fingers touch the skin of the past, and together, we meet in the present moment. Together, we create connection, warmth, understanding.
The curling of our fingers reminds me of holding hands with someone you love, your fingers intertwined and spaced out so strategically with theirs. The tip of each finger meets each space between each knuckle, and you are perfectly and effortlessly centered.
And then there are the moments in life when I do the curling all on my own...
I curl my fingers around my big toe to hold myself up on one leg during yoga. I need to feel balanced, so I curl.
I curl my fingers around my steering wheel when the rain falls like rocks from a sky of deep, dark gray. Its uncontrollable, undeniable force roars against my window and I need to feel stable, so I curl.
I curl my fingers against my lips when I am thinking about next steps in life or next steps in my day. I need to feel purpose, so I curl.
I curl my fingers when I play the ukulele or the piano, playing with sounds and words, forming a puzzle with tiny bits and peculiar pieces. I need to release, so I curl.
I curl my fingers when I cry, trying to erase this far-too-public display of emotion. I need to feel normal so I curl.
I curl my fingers around my phone as I reconnect with an old friend, my breath slowing down as I listen intently. I need to feel human, so I curl.
I curl my fingers around the front of my bike, the wind kissing my face and lightening my load. I need to feel alive, so I curl.
We curl to forget.
We curl to remember.
We curl to connect.
We curl to disappear.
Whatever the reason, we curve, we fold, we bend.