Open Hands, Open Heart

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.