The Grace of Open Hands

We are not meant to go through life with white knuckles, bracing ourselves against the onslaught of time. And yet, how often do we move through the world this way—clutching, gripping, holding too tightly to what was, to what might have been, to what we fear we will lose? Somewhere along the way, we have learned to carry life as if it were something that might be taken from us at any moment, something we must hold onto with all our strength, lest it slip through our fingers like sand. But life is not meant to be clenched in a fist. Life is not something to be possessed, defended, or hoarded. It is something given, something received, something shared.

Yet we are not to blame for our tightening. The world can be chaotic, unpredictable, and painful. It can feel as though we are at the mercy of forces far beyond our control, as though the ground beneath us shifts too quickly to ever find our footing. There are days when sorrow arrives unannounced, when losses stack themselves in quiet corners of our hearts, when the weight of all we carry bends our shoulders toward the earth. There are seasons when everything familiar seems to vanish, when we reach out for what was steady only to find it is no longer there. And so, we grip. We brace ourselves. We hold on, believing that if we just try harder, if we just keep control, we can keep the pain at bay.

But the wisdom of life teaches us otherwise. The tide does not resist its own rising and falling; the tree does not cling to its withered leaves. The river does not try to hold onto its banks. Everything in nature moves in the rhythm of holding and releasing, receiving and letting go. And we, too, are part of this rhythm. When we resist it, we suffer. When we fight the necessary openings and closings of life, we become weary and rigid. But when we learn to soften, when we learn to trust the great ebb and flow that moves through all things, we begin to live with a different kind of presence. We begin to live with open hands.

And in those open hands, we find something precious: the remembrance of joy. For no matter how distant it may feel, we have all known joy. We have felt it rise unbidden in moments of laughter, in the weightless hush of dawn, in the sudden burst of birdsong after rain. We have known the quiet wonder of watching the light shift across a loved one’s face, the deep peace of standing barefoot in the sand, the warmth of a hand resting in ours. These are not fleeting or insignificant moments. They are the whispers of something eternal, the echoes of a happiness that is not bound to circumstance, but to the very nature of being alive.

And this is part of the great calling we have been given—to be stewards of this joy. To hold it, not just for ourselves, but for one another. When one of us forgets, another remembers. When the light fades in one heart, another heart keeps it burning. In this way, we become keepers of the memory of joy. We become custodians of hope.

For joy is not an isolated thing, nor is it meant to be hoarded. It is a river that flows between us, a shared current of remembering. When we gather, when we share our laughter, our tenderness, our stories, we extend the memory of happiness outward, like ripples on water. We remind one another what is possible. We become, for each other, the proof that light still lingers, that beauty still calls to us, that love still moves among us.

And this is not only for us, but for all creation. The trees lean toward us, waiting for our remembering. The rivers long for our reverence. The creatures of this world move with a knowing we have forgotten—that life is not something to conquer, but something to receive, something to honor, something to give back to. And so, when we hold joy with open hands, when we bless the world with our presence, we become part of the great healing, the great restoration of what was never truly lost, only hidden beneath our fear.

To live with open hands is not to deny sorrow. It is not to turn away from suffering. Rather, it is to hold both—joy and sorrow, loss and love, grief and gratitude—within the same heart, without needing to tighten or control. It is to trust that life moves through us, and that even in the darkest night, something luminous is at work.

So let us loosen our grip. Let us ease the ache in our fingers and shoulders. Let us trust that we do not have to hold the weight of the world alone. Let us learn to live with open hands, to receive and to release, to gather and to give away.

For together, we remember. And in remembering, we return to the sacred flow of life itself.

BLESSING

May you come to know the grace of open hands, the quiet surrender that trusts in the rhythm of life. May you release the need to grip too tightly, to brace against the unknown, to hold on out of fear. May the burdens you have carried for too long begin to loosen their grip, and may you feel the weight of worry and sorrow slowly lifting from your shoulders.

May you remember that life is not meant to be clenched in a fist but received like a gift, offered like a blessing, shared like a feast. May the currents of time carry you, not as something to be feared, but as something to guide you toward the unfolding of your own becoming. May you trust that you are being led, not into uncertainty, but into deeper belonging, where love and grace are woven into every moment.

May you find rest from the constant need to control, and may you discover a gentler way of being in the world. May you stand at the threshold of each new day with a heart unburdened, knowing that you do not have to hold everything together on your own. May you know the quiet joy of surrender, the deep peace that comes when you allow yourself to be carried, the soft unfolding of grace when you no longer resist the tide.

May you remember, even in the midst of sorrow, that joy is never truly lost, only waiting to be remembered. May the lightness of laughter return to you when you least expect it. May you see the world with eyes made clear by wonder, so that even the smallest moments—a bird resting on a branch, the hush of evening, the warmth of a friend’s hand—become reminders of the beauty that still surrounds you.

May you come to trust in the great ebb and flow that moves through all things. May you recognize that, just as the tide rises and falls, so too do the seasons of your own heart shift and change. May you hold your days with reverence, knowing that each one is a gift, given and received, arriving and departing in its own perfect time.

May you be a keeper of joy, not only for yourself but for others. When those around you forget the light, may you be one who remembers. When the weight of the world presses too heavily upon another’s spirit, may you be the one who helps them lay it down. May you be a steward of hope, a gentle bearer of the memory that life is still good, that love is still near, that there is still more to come.

May your hands, once so weary from clenching and striving, grow open and soft, ready to receive all that life longs to give you. May you discover, in the grace of open hands, that you have never been without what you needed most. And may you live each day in the quiet assurance that, in releasing, you make space for something even greater to enter.

I love You,
Alma