gentle hands

When you were small, he was like a tree in the middle of a windy field. In a world that was wide-open and so much bigger than yourself, the thick trunks of his legs were there to wrap your arms around, something stable to hold onto. Your earliest memories were gentle hands and a calm voice that soothed your pains and banished your fears, warm arms that held you close. As you grew too big to be carried, he guided you, from tending to the sheep to making your talents blossom. He was proud, so proud of you for becoming a healer, but you knew it was natural.

What else could it be, but his compassion carrying on in you?

You cut your hair, bound your chest. Carried a new name on your lips. You saw the confusion in his eyes, but you also saw how hard he tried to put it aside. The deep breaths, the apologies, the corrections. It was a process, but you never forgot how fortunate you were that he was making that effort to begin with. How many would refuse to understand? Turn you away, or worse?

You'd soon know, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that, even as you left home, you carried everything that he gave you and held it close. It gilded you better than any armor.

When everything you were was laid bare, attacked and violated in a way that made you feel like you would shatter, it kept you together. It was a brace around your heart. No matter what the world would take from you, there was something it could never have.

It could never take away your memories of something better, instilled in you from your birth;  love and compassion and trust were real and worth believing in and worth defending. Everyone deserved to have that foundation in their lives, someone to hold them and nurture them . To guide them, with gentle hands and a calm voice.

No matter how far you travelled, you know you could have never made it this far alone. Even when you had no one else, he was there and always would be.