The Sage in Elders

Last night I dreamed with my maternal grandmother. She was born and immediately became an orphan. Her mother died while giving birth. Her dad left. Her older brother who was about 20 years her senior watched after her until he could send her to boarding school. My grandmother was a quiet woman. She never said much but observed the world around her. She was in her seventies when I came along. I would sit near her taking in her silence, watching her blue-green eyes that were overly magnified by her thick glasses. I would touch her thin-soft porcelain hands and hold them in my little chubby ones.

What I remember from her are snippets of stories that usually brought some sort of lesson. She only shared them with me because I enjoyed listening so attentively to her soft pace and rhythm. She was poise and graceful. There was so much silence in her world because my grandfather was a powerhouse of noise and attitude. Natalia was gentle that way. She seemed to bring his demeanor to a calming state. I never understood their dynamic. I never understood how they slept in two separate twin beds in a large home with so many other rooms to spare. I never understood how they never touched. I never understood how she lived painfully taking things in and keeping them secretive. But, that was the way things were done a hundred years ago.

My grandmother died on her 95 birthday. She left on the same day she came in. I sat by her that morning. She was incoherent. She opened her eyes, I squeezed her gentle hands, and she closed her eyes acknowledging that it was time. Her soul left so quickly that it felt as if someone had undressed her body and opened up space for nothingness. I remember being 21 years old and experiencing that first encounter of seeing life leave in an instance. It was magical. It was as if she finally didn’t need to keep all those secrets bottled up to herself. It was as if she finally had permission to be the angelic presence she had been on earth. She seemed to never fit…until that moment her soul flew to the heavens.

Last night in that dream she didn’t wear her thick glasses. She was younger. She sat next to me on my porch and, like when I was young, spoke softly while utilizing just enough words to get her message across. She had been an English teacher in Puerto Rico. She was raised in a nun’s convent in Ohio. Her stories were always missing something and last night she seemed to arrive with all those missing parts.

That’s the thing about stories, huh? They come at the precise time we need to hear them. Sometimes the same story can be retold or re-read a thousand times but with each word a new awareness arises to some other level. We are shaken to open. Her quietness and presence eventually shook me to awake. In a cold rainy night I could feel her presence, smell her fragrance, and taste her words. Today I am wearing her smile, her gentleness and I recognize it’s important to continue collecting those stories…especially from our elders who become sages of time. It’s imperative to listen. It’s crucial to be present with others who need us. I am grateful and blessed for each one of you who reaches out and asks for love. Love comes from different sources in this universe. Collect those hearts from all the places that are sent to you.

Thank you. Love is returned back with deep blessings! ~ Millie

In Your Hands


feel the soil

nails deep in earth,

fingers thrusting and pushing.

Smell terra firma

as growth begins

with your help

triggering all

molecules and particles

as your extension.

You can choose

to hold on to what is good

even if it is

a handful of creation,

the ground,

the tree of your existence.

Hold space,

the universe,

and God

right in between your palms.

Trail the path,

feel the power and let go,

allowing life to engulf you.

Let it sit and move and grow

so that you can witness

the greatness,

the vastness,

the miracle

of the Divine

as it integrates in YOU.

Hands of Time


I need not tell you my story.

I will show you my hands

so you can study the lines

that have intersected,



and worked

through this journey of life.

Notice the age

of my veins,

the bruises and scars

that have implemented

inside of them.

Touch my swelling knuckles,

that have pounded so many times

helping in their decay,

silently telling of the myth of me

and the things we pretend

no one sees.

These are the maps

of all I’ve ever seen

and all I have been.

Each freckle,

callous, and break

indents the gestures of my existence.

Admire my extremities

and the way they gently touch your skin,

my hand fitting in yours,

and the pulse of life that runs through them.

We are connected this way,

in the way we help each other,

we comfort one another,

and at times push away.

They are the topographical depiction of my timeline.


Beauty in a Memory

entanglementSome moments have no room for words

because just uttering a syllable

could diminish their magic.

This is such a moment

as you lie on your stomach,

bare back saluting and hypnotizing

my fingers in circles,

dragging with tender motions to

some magnetic field of joy.

The candle flickers in the background

and your breath find its rhythm.

You are mine…right now

and I understand true beauty

as my fingertips search your skin,

folding over body heat,

exploring through scars, lines and curves

while leaving my prints to testify

that I was here.

Tears swell in my eyes

as I prop up on my hand to witness

you next to me napping

and light creating a masking silhouette

of a gentle soul.

I am seeing exquisiteness

through divinity in you.

Years from now when someone asks

for a beautiful memory I will return

to this place time and time again.

I will transport myself to the very second

when I couldn’t conjure up an adjective

to describe the scene without sounding corny.

Somehow this moment will be added to others

but for now I can cherish my touch upon your body

and the nurturing it returns with a sleepy sigh.

Walking me home


Everything is nothing

until you glance over

and I smile at you,

giddiness follows

and your lips

whisper softly

through the mischievous

blue eyes

and a wrinkle of your nose,

“I love you, babe.”

Everything feels


in the world


before you

I was just making heads

of my place

in this space

until my hands

finally allowed yours

to gather me,

walk us back home,

and showed me what was missing.

Quiet Conversation

You are never far

from my extremities.

On our bed

limbs journey towards you,

toes rubbing against

the warmth of your legs

nudging at flesh,

kneading through muscles,

digging for the promise

of magnetism.

Hands stretch

for assurance in

bridging the distance

between here and there.

You allow for it,

enticed by the hunger

of a give-and-take affection

as we silently converse.

Whenever I get lost

in a book or movie

I find your fingers

studiously reaching,

magically appearing

under mountains of blankets

for more love

between the quietude

that defines the comfort of us.

And in one moment

you take my hand

gently placing

that last kiss of night

on the palm of my skin

to remind me

of the things

I don’t have to say.

Lifelines: Hands of Time

hands of timeI love hands. I love the way they move throughout the world. Whenever I meet anyone my eyes go first to their eyes and then their hands. For the most part, when someone shares a story about themselves their hands don’t seem to match the words. They gesture and express in accordance with the story but their hands tell another story. The texture, scars, shape and movement say a different version. They speak the truth.

I look at my own hands. I think of the thousands of times they have held my children, assured them of safety, fixed their boo-boo’s, sheltered them from others and rubbed them with constant love. These hands have held a lost pet, a friend in need, wiped tears, and have been the last touch before a loved one died. They have caressed lovers, massaged love into a moment of pain, and held my own life with joy and sorrow. They’ve created, pushed, pulled and extended themselves to all that life has thrown at me. These hands are the spaces in the gaps of all that doesn’t live in awareness of my stories. Each finger has explored and allowed spirit to be moved in and out of my realm. In an unconscious walking world, they have been the guidance that sustains me. In conscious awareness, they are the grace that guides my presence throughout each day.

In palmistry the life line is that line that determines the challenges and length of life. To me, life lines are the hands themselves. They are the extension of one spirit to another and to the world. They hold life in them and give back to another. Think of all that they do in just one hour. They feed, clothe, wash, love, and bring the world to us. They work for us, not only in a profession but in everything we do to survive. They extend to help another, assure that things will be fine, express what words can’t, and hold the world in the center of them.

Each line, scar, callous, freckle, creates a union to our journey. They speak of your past and how you have arrived here. They heal, love, and bring the extension of another into your proximity. Hands are not just extremities of a body, but the life line of your existence. With each touch that is shared you enter another’s space. These life lines are the doorway into the home of another. They are the strength of mind, body and spirit that stretch out and welcome life.  Hands are the sole connection to another’s soul.  I can’t help but notice them in each person that arrives in my life ready to share their journey with me.

“Your hand opens and closes, opens and closes. If it were always a fist or always stretched open, you would be paralysed. Your deepest presence is in every small contracting and expanding, the two as beautifully balanced and coordinated as birds’ wings.” – Rumi



You once held my hands,

now you hold my heart.

You once held my body,

now you hold my memories.

I want so badly to fly to you,

forgetting all I’ve said,

so I can have you embrace

those parts of me

that no one else can find

in these moments

that drape over me

at 3AM.

I want to be your violin

while you create

the melody of us

over and over

pulling each string,

hollowing out the edges

and allowing

the magic of your touch

to expand us into greatness.

I want your hands claiming mine,



knotting us into one being.


how I want to wear

your eyes on me,

your kisses on my skin,