Hamsa–The Hand of Fatima & The Virgin Mary

FOR THOSE OF YOU THAT KNOW MY WHOLE STORY, THIS WILL MAKE A LOT OF SENSE.

in high school I had reoccurring dreams of a symbol–a hand with an eye on it.  Dreamed it all the time.  I had no idea what it meant, but it remained with me always.  A few years later I lostinthevalleyrosaryFatimawas dreaming I was in this different aboriginal world and we were painting our faces with blue war paint.  A woman, the leader, kept saying something very close to the sound of “Fatima” and I bolted out of bed but I could not write it down for some strange reason–it slipped away too quickly.  More time passed.  I got sick.  Really sick..  I’d sob into

my hospital mattress praying the Hail Mary over and over and over until I fell asleep.  And everything changed.  But I came back to that dream of the hand with the eye on it, and mulled it over while I was healing.

Last month I was at church (a very rare occasion because I try very hard not to cry for some reason when I”m there) and I was walking out with my grandpa and there was a table of pamphlets and audiobooks set up and I stopped dead in my tracks–there it was; Fatima.  I knew that name but from where?  I kept repeating it in my head.  I knew it.  It was a picture of the Virgin Mary, the vision in Portugal.  I stopped my mother and whispered that I knew this–that I’d dreamed this.  Naturally she shrugged and that was that.   More time passed.

I looked up “hand with eye” and what came up was the Hamsa symbol–the hand of a holy woman (or God’s hand for some) with the eye for protection against evils.   I didn’t read much more because I was floating on the fact that I had dreamed these things and thought maybe–just maybe.  I was so drawn to it, I ordered my hamsa ring after waiting years to get it–I don’t know why I waited.  I stared at it on Etsy every month or so.  But I had to have it.  It was me.

Then I’m at home reading the art of Tantra and books on Sacred Sexuality Read More

Beyond the Border/Hamsa

(published in Frigg Magazine 2014)

HAMSA

The pop and snap of prescription pill bottles,

swallow, light, inhale, scrape of the chair,

cluster of tap-tap-taps on the keys, a silence—

beyond this room, beyond this wall

I can almost hear you—the soil

sifting, seeds spreading out, dry in your palm;

folds of light robes around you like

birds’ wings—your child

asleep on your warm back,

your sky a sea, an earth, a breath

 

because you’re there I’m less anxious

(as I palm another pill) because I rely

on sedated time I sit in my chair,

lost somewhere before the border,

where I see myself later—aged and worn away—

walking to you, palms up.

 

“Here, here I am…” only you aren’t waiting

for me, time is something else to you—

so I see I don’t have to tell you

where I’ve been or why I am here

but that I’ve arrived

out of the cement tomb.

I see there are no distractions in the sky;

the rise and fall of my chest is all,

seas of breath and I am.

 

I know the scent of your skin,

the feel of your warm, bent back

beneath my body, I know necessity.

 

I will arrive

when I am not so afraid of myself.

When I am not so sick.

I will cross into the motherland.

I will go home.

I will leave what I’ve built behind and

I will take my place

among the living.

 

I can hear you beyond this room.

 

 

 

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