The Fragile Vessel and Open Hands: Lessons from a Shattered Dish

On a recent Sunday, my house was about to be full in the way my heart loves best. My three boys were home to celebrate their older brother Alexander's 26th birthday. Laughter, games and a big family meal in the making: enchiladas in the oven, nachos on the way.

The nachos were a favorite of mine: pre-seasoned crumbled tofu, toasted in a pan with onions, garlic, and all the yummy nacho fixings. There was just one problem. The bag was frozen solid, a rock of tofu.

And so, in a moment I still can't fully explain, I picked up the ceramic casserole dish I planned to cook in, held it by its delicate little handles, and tried to break up the tofu with it.

Of course it shattered. It pierced straight through both of my middle fingers.

There was blood everywhere. My kitchen looked like a scene from a horror film. And here is the part that surprises me: I stayed calm. I ran my hands under the water to see the damage, but there was too much blood, so I bunched paper towels into my fists and headed to urgent care. My youngest, Xavier, offered to drive me, but urgent care is only two minutes away and he had work later. I didn't want him to spend his day waiting on me, so I told him I could get there myself.

I walked into the clinic, leaving a trail of blood behind me. The nurses cleaned me up, took an x-ray, and stitched me right back together: five stitches in my left hand, four in my right.

I'm okay. Truly. But I haven't stopped thinking about it since.

The Two Questions That Followed Me Home

First: why did I choose something so fragile for something so rough?

How often do we do this? We ask a delicate thing to do a hard job. We ask our bodies to push through exhaustion. We ask our nervous systems to hold one more thing. We ask our patience, our kindness, our "I'm fine" to carry weight they were never made to carry. Then we're surprised when something breaks.

Second: why didn't it cross my mind to call for help?

My husband was upstairs, and yet it never occurred to me to call out for him. And, as I later learned, it didn't occur to Xavier to call his dad either, even as he watched me drive away with bloodied hands. It didn't occur to either of us. Honestly, that still astonishes me.

I think in seasons of difficulty, we slowly stop seeing the people closest to us as people we can lean on. We feel let down by people, circumstances, choices... In that moment of worry and strain, beneath my calm, some part of me quietly decided: there's no one here to help.

I don't have a tidy answer. I'm still sitting with it. But as usual, I've found some guidance in the ancient texts.

What the Gita Says About Lifting Yourself

In the Bhagavad Gita (6.5), Krishna tells Arjuna:

uddhared ātmanātmānaṁ nātmānam avasādayet

"Let man lift himself by himself, let him not lower himself; his self alone is his friend, his self alone is his enemy."

(I read "man" here as meaning all of us.)

For years, I've loved this verse as a reminder of our own inner strength. And I did lift myself that Sunday: I stayed steady, I drove, I handled it. But this time I heard the verse differently.

A. Parthasarathy, in his commentary on the Gita, explains that this verse is about self-effort. Books, teachers, and gurus can offer helpful material and guidance, but they cannot replace our own work. No one can do our evolving for us. He adds that we can serve as either friend or enemy to ourselves, depending on how we use our body, mind, and intellect.

The example often given is a knife: it can be a tool that helps or a weapon that harms, and the knife itself is indifferent to both. Or in this case, a ceramic casserole dish: a tool meant to serve me, which I turned into a hazard.

Looking down at my stitched fingers, I could see both sides. By reaching for a fragile dish and pushing through alone, I treated myself like an enemy without meaning to. Being a friend to myself would have meant noticing that I needed support, and then asking for it. Asking for help doesn't hand off our effort. It is part of the effort, and the choice to reach out is still ours to make. Sometimes the wisest way to lift yourself is to let someone else's hands be part of the lifting. I should have let Xavier drive me and sit with me while my hands bled. I could have called for my husband, who has always known what to do in moments of difficulty.

I wonder, too, what my instinct was telling me. Perhaps distance has created a blind spot between us, and in that moment he slipped right into it. Perhaps a part of me knows I have to rely on myself more now than I ever did in the past. When I acted on that, it surprised me, and it made me question a number of long-held ideas I've carried in my heart.

And Then, Someone Took the Spoon

Later, when Alexander and my sweet daughter in love, Alishma, arrived, I was back from urgent care with freshly bandaged hands, still in the kitchen, still trying to finish the meal. Alishma took one look at me, stepped in, gently took the spoon from my hands, and said, "Please, let me do that."

I hadn't asked. She simply saw me, and she offered her hands.

It was such a small moment, but something in me softened. Here was an answer to the quiet story I'd told myself, there's no one here to help. There was. There always had been. Help was walking through the door, waiting for me to open my hands. Receiving it, I'm learning, is a practice of its own.

The Hands We Look Down At

Hands have been on my mind a lot even before this accident. Every morning, before my feet touch the floor, I practice this simple mantra:

Karāgre vasate Lakṣmīḥ Karamadhye Sarasvatī Karamūle tu Govindaḥ Prabhāte karadarśanam

Meaning: At the fingertips resides Lakshmi, abundance and prosperity. In the palm resides Saraswati, knowledge, art, and wisdom. At the base of the hand, near the wrist, resides Govinda, that which sustains and protects. In the early morning, I contemplate seeing these divine forces in my own hands.

I've been chanting it in my mornings and sharing it in some of my classes. Never did I imagine I'd be chanting it with stitches across my fingers. And yet there they were, bandaged and tender, still holding all three: the ability to create, the capacity to learn, and the quiet strength that sustains us. My hands didn't stop being sacred because they were hurt. If anything, I looked at them with more tenderness than ever.

Just days before my accident, after our Surrender Yin class at Life Time, June one of my students, wrote the following reflection and with her permission, I'd like to share it with you:

" My Two Little Hands Today, during Yin Yoga class, our instructor, Francia asked us to hold out our cupped hands and gaze at our palms as she guided us through a meditation.I was struck by how small and wrinkled they were. These hands had raised two boys, cared for my parents until the end of their lives, cooked countless meals, dug through the hard Maryland clay soil, cultivated a perennial garden, and made pretty mason jar bouquets to share with neighbors, friends, and strangers. I felt a wave of gratitude for all the labor these small hands with stubby fingers had done throughout my life. I had always been a little self-conscious about their appearance, wishing my fingers were longer and more graceful. But today, I felt proud of these small, wrinkled hands that bore the marks of a lifetime of honest, loving labor. I wouldn't trade them for any other hands in the world."

June shared this with me after the accident, and wow did it feel like provenance. Our hands carry our whole story don't they? the lifting, the cooking, the caring, and yes, the mistakes with all their corresponding scars. They give, and they receive. They can heal but they can also harm. My boys and Alishma's hands took the proverbial spoon, and mine learned to let go.

Ahimsa Starts at Home, Including With Me

My whole practice, and the name of this shala, rests on ahimsa, non-harm. We usually talk about it as kindness to others. But it also means: don't harm yourself by taking on what's too heavy, and don't harm your relationships by quietly shutting people out.

Using a fragile dish on a frozen block was a small act of self-harm, born of hurry and a lack of awareness. Not calling for help was another, softer and harder to see.

A Gentle Practice: Breath, Then a Question

Whether you're in the middle of a hard moment or simply noticing a pattern, try this. It's gentle, and you can do it seated in a chair or on the floor with a bolster or folded blanket.

1. Settle. Sit comfortably. Let your hands rest open on your thighs, palms up if that feels okay.

2. Lengthen the exhale (pranayama). Inhale for a count of 4. Exhale slowly for a count of 6. Repeat 8 to 10 rounds. A longer exhale tells the nervous system it's safe to soften.

3. Withdraw inward (pratyahara). Let your eyes close or soften. Let the sounds around you fade into the background. Come home to the breath.

4. Ask quietly. Silently ask: Where in my life am I using something fragile for a very heavy job? Where am I trying to carry something alone?

5. Rest and listen. Stay for a minute. There's no right answer, just noticing.

Modifications: Use a wall or chair for support, and shorten the counts (3 in, 4 or 5 out) if that's more comfortable.

A morning companion: Before you get out of bed, sit up tall, gently rub your palms together, and cup your hands open in front of your face like a book. Gaze softly at your palms and recite Karāgre Vasate Lakṣmī mantra slowly three times, with gratitude. Then pause in silence and set one kind intention for the day.

You can find the full practice here: https://www.ahimsawellnessyoga.com/chanting or join me Fridays 9am for our breath and focus class, where we learn pranayama techniques, practice mindfulness and chant.

Reflection Prompts

• When did I last say, "Can you help me?" and truly mean it?

• Who might be waiting, quietly, to be asked?

• What would it feel like to let someone carry this with me?

• What do my hands tell me about the life I've lived and the love I've given?

A Soft Invitation

Kintsugi mends shattered pottery with gold and lets the seams show. My fingers have their own seams now, and I'm learning to be gentle with them. Healing doesn't have to hide its seams.

If you'd like to explore these ideas in community, you're so welcome to join us, online or in person, beginners and longtime practitioners alike. Come as you are, and bring whatever you're carrying. We'll hold some of it together. 💛

Try a gentle & restorative class from the recorded library

https://youtu.be/emkWq9Es_-U?si=jDh5J80RGvYzfO1q

Pedir ayuda no es debilidad; es abrir la mano.

Con cariño, Francia 🙏