I am reminded in this shift from open hand to fist of this poem. For me, an open hand can hold something, is welcoming, requires a shift of the arm that goes directly to the heart, the earth, moves the shoulder blades, the wings.
Birdwings by Rumi
Your grief to what you've lost lifts a mirror
up to where you're bravely working.
Expecting the worst, you look, and instead,
here's the joyful face you've been wanting to see.
Your hand opens and closes and opens and closes.
If it were always a fist or always stretched open,
you would be paralyzed.
Your deepest presence is in every small contracting and expanding,
the two as beautifully balanced and coordinated