How many times I touched the bottom of the ocean without knowing how to swim?
And yet I saw the molecules of air scattering blue.
How many times I felt the lack of oxygen and yet I found the stillness, the peacefulness of life?
How did I learn the movement of the water or the tongue of the sand…?
I reached the shore as the waves did. I saw my hands palms facing up the blue.
I laid my body in my hands and then I deeply fell into the dream knowing my hands are never resting.
And in my dream my hands were sharing gifts and they were bringing back to me all that I am giving.
I've learned my hands are never sleeping nor does my soul rest.
They rest when they caress.
My hands are bringing love.
They are the language of my soul when my soul whispers through my hands.
My hands, 2018, Anca Stefanescu
I wrote the poem "My Hands" almost two years ago...I didn't know back then my husband Cristian would come to photograph our hands and I would paint them. This is how my life goes. He photographs, I paint. He writes his ideas, I write my feelings. But these days I paint what he had recently captured with his camera... I paint us. I don’t feel isolated from the world. I feel more focused on my emotionality and inner impetuses that leave their marks on my life, on that structure that still emerges and it is far from being finished.