Cup my hands together,
hands that labor, create, plant, push away,
and hold gently what these days offer.

Cup my hands,
bones aching, muscles cramping, fingers numb.
Cup my hands.

~

There is a vessel, a container.

Two shallow bowls woven of grasses,
threaded together to form a hollow container
cupped like hands in prayer and supplication.

Baskets, bowls, vessels of prayer.

This vessel a sacred tradition.
Ancient peoples wove these bowls two centuries ago,
gift offered to those highly honored, beloved, much revered.

This vessel traveled as companion on the journey
to the place beyond.

The vessel held nothing –
nothing visible –
yet it contained much of great worth.
This shallow woven basket wass imbued with sacred messages
to the honored one from family and community.

Words prayed into the vessel before the last stitches sealed it.

“Respected one.”
“Beloved.”
“Wise one.”

~

Moved deeply by the intention of this sacred ritual,
I cup my hands together. Breathe words into my hands,
whisper my most impassioned blessings.
Words of blessings with which I honor myself.

Sacred words, most valued gift,  held in sacred vessel.

“Beloved one.” “Worthy one.”
“Courageous one.” “Awakened one.”

~~~~~~~~~~

This was inspired by the poem Blessing the Fragments by Jan Richardson which begins:

“Cup your hands together,
and you will see the shape
this blessing wants to take.

Basket, bowl, vessel:
it cannot help but hold itself
open to welcome what comes…”