My mother’s hands
are gentle as she tills the earth, pulling weeds from beside her flowers and placing
vegetable seeds in the ground. At a young age, I loved to join her outside in
the garden. She taught me what plants to pull and which to leave, but mostly I just
enjoyed digging in the dirt. I liked to discover what each different type of
dirt felt like on my skin- the softness of damp dirt, the dustiness of dry
dirt, the roughness of sandy dirt, and even the smoothness of mud. The cool
feeling of the earth on my fingertips was all I needed to entertain myself.
When we got a sandbox, I would play in it for hours, not only building castles
and digging trenches, but also letting the grains sift through my fingers and finding
smooth pebbles to rub between my palms.
I didn’t limit my
tactile experience to the outside world though. The hands that raised me cultivated
more than dirt; they also cooked the food that sustained me. My favorite days
were the days that Mom made bread, the days when mixing was not limited to a
wooden spoon or spatula; our hands are tools too, just as important as any bowl
or cup of flour. I love the squish of dough in my hands, releasing the sweet
scent of flour and yeast, pulling and pushing the air bubbles from the unbaked bread.
Kneading uses palms as well as fingertips to turn and press. If unwatched, I
would knead the bread too long, loving the dusty flour coating my hands and how
it caused the dough to pull away from my skin—almost sticking, but not quite.
My father’s hands
draw music from the violin. When I was four years old, I joined him in the art,
reveling at the ridge a string makes under my finger as I press it down. He
would move my fingers around on the instrument so I played the notes in tune
until I learned muscle memory, and we would play my songs together. I learn
better by listening to the music than by just reading it off the page, but I
learn best when I play a piece with someone the first time. Doing something,
physically touching it and experiencing it etches the new skill into my brain
better than anything else. When playing a piece of music, hands are very
important. My fingers need to know what to do in order to play the piece properly,
and I find it hard to do that if I’ve only heard or seen the piece. I can hear
it in my head, but not properly transfer it from the paper to my hands until
I’ve experienced it.
Hands are
important to me. Fingertips have some of the densest groupings of nerve endings
on the body. It’s no secret that everyone has unique fingerprints. A human hand
has 27 bones all to itself. When we think of our sense of touch, we usually
thing of hands first and foremost, even though it applies to all the skin on our
bodies. These are just a few of the reasons I find hands fascinating. They are
so different and so similar on every person. Some people have long thin
fingers, others have broad palms. Some are rough and calloused, some are smooth
and soft. Hands, and specifically, opposable thumbs, make our lives as humans
so much easier than they would be without.
I am a very
tactile person, and the touch sense is significant to me. Even as a child, I
used my hands a lot. When I made up stories, I often had a stress ball that I
would transfer back and forth to keep the thoughts flowing. Now, I have Silly
Putty on my desk for when I get distracted while reading something for class or
trying to spark a new ides. Molding a rubbery, not-quite-sticky ball of goo
with one hand while working on something else does wonders for my
concentration. Occupying the tactile part of my brain clears up the rest of my mind
enough that I can focus on whatever else it is that I need to get done.
Part of this need
for tactile occupation comes from being a kinesthetic learner. I learn by
doing, by touching. I’ve always sort of known this, but was never able to put
it into words until I took a test in middle school, determining learning types.
Suddenly, with the word on the paper in front of me, it all made sense. I like
to keep my hands busy. I like to mold state maps out of clay instead of just
looking at paper ones so I can feel the ridges of Colorado’s mountains beneath
my fingers. Busy hands to me means accomplishment. Even if that is just typing
something onto a computer or writing in a journal, busy hands mean busy minds,
and I admire everyone who creates beautiful things with their hands.
I
think about hands a lot. I am left-handed, and that might have something to do
with it. I notice when a person in my class or a character in a movie is also
left-handed. It gives us a sort of connection in my mind. We hold our pencils
in the same way: the wood is in a different place on our skin than on everyone
else’s making us unique. However, everyone’s hands are special. Some people are
especially good at painting or drawing; others can make beautiful pottery or
sew dresses or braid hair. Others throw baseballs, build houses, and play
pianos. No matter whom they belong to, hands tell stories. Scarred with
memories and lined with the passage of time, hands hold so much to offer.
When
I think of my hands, I often think of my grandfather’s hands. They were old and
wrinkled, weathered by age and hard work, spotted by time spent in the sun.
They were calloused and arthritic and still covered in soft, leathery skin.
Those hands carried so many things that I can only dream of. They also tilled
the earth, guiding machines across the land, they fixed cars with tools and
grease, they wrote out letters with pen and paper, they cradled newborn babies.
Holding my grandfather’s hand, I felt safe. I knew that his hands were strong,
I knew that his hands were gentle. The thin leathery skin beneath mine held
pain of the past and promise of the future, stories that I could explore
forever.
Hands
are not much of a legacy. But when I think of what I’ve done with my life so
far, so much of it comes back to hands. Everything I have carried, I carried
with my hands, from brand new books with smooth covers, to my soft baby blanket,
to meals made for new neighbors and boxes transported to help friends move. I
make music with my hands on glossy wooden instruments with metal strings, I
have made scarves with large metal needles and soft colorful yarn to give as
gifts, I have formed smooth clay into pots and painted it slick with paint. The
legacy extends beyond carrying and creating, though. Who have I broken bread
with, who have I shaken hands with, who’s children have I held? When I marry, I
will wear a ring on my hand, when I have children, I will hold them and care
for them with my hands. I write words with my hands, provide comfort with my
hands. I will teach my children how to use their hands for good and beauty, as
my mother and father taught me, and show them the stories written on my palms,
like the ones etched into my grandfathers skin. My hands are the tools I will
use to continue the legacy of my family before me, and I will strive for the
rest of my life to use them to touch and embrace the world in hopes of making it
a better place.
