Hands

A tribute to these miraculous gifts

May 10, 2024

When we are children, our hearts are about the size of a fist. When we are adults, our hearts are about the size of two fists. The Taoist system of energy medicine identifies a meridian that runs directly from the heart to and through the hands.

Through our hands, we convert our heart’s intentions—our life force— into action as we give and receive in the world.

Jeannine Ouellette

This post has been developing in the recesses of my mind for some time. It is about the beauty of our hands and the role they play in our lives. Jeannine’s beautiful quote in her Wednesday post this week put the finishing touches on my thoughts.

Here is my tribute to the gifts at the end of our wrists.

I touch the shoulder of my manicurist as I pass by her on my way to wash my hands. She murmurs,

“Wow.”

When I am seated back in front of her, she informs me that my energy is intense. At this point, I have not studied massage nor Reiki, and the idea of becoming a yoga instructor isn’t even a spot on the horizon.

In the ensuing years, I will learn the energy our hands hold and the importance of touch.

I can remember in detail the hands of every person I have truly loved. Love flowed through those hands and I, in turn, mesmerized every contour of those vessels.

My mother’s hands are wrinkled; the veins run purple beneath her translucent skin. As I begin to sleep across the room waiting for her to enjoy a manicure, I awaken in fright to her squeals. I am relieved to find her staring at her newly painted fingernails with a Christmas theme. She is as delighted as a child. I compliment her beautiful nails, remembering that even when she might not have had the words or the bandwidth to mother me, those hands comforted and cared for me.

Middle finger missing, remaining fingers stiff, a skin graft covering his left wrist, my father’s deformed hand holds enormous grief. His hands will serve him well as a machinist instead of the musician he worked hard to become. Those hands will play checkers with me, tickle me mercilessly, and comfort me, the bird, and the dog. My father will raise a fist toward my mother at the dinner table when she angers him. I remember the feel of each hand, one cold and stiff, the other warm and comforting, a metaphor for his life.

My mother-in-law’s hands were small and slender. We would giggle together, looking at her pinky finger. It was so sweet, as small as a child’s finger. She would hold my hand, her anxiousness alive and well in her fidgeting fingers. A victim of the Holocaust, trust likely came hard for her. Holding hands with her was her gift to you.

Julie’s hands were hard-working. She was the cleanest woman I’ve met and the best cook. Her nails were cropped short for cleanliness. Those hands taught me to cook. In the end, Julie’s hands were the first to alert me to my dear friend’s dementia, as her nails had grown long.

Holding my children’s hands when they were young and today has brought me more joy than I can say. Their touch confirms my purpose for being here.

Lastly, Rick’s hands are strong and capable, whether working in the yard, in the house or cooking something delicious.

How would we get along without those capable hands?

Likely, we’d get by with the assistance of others as long as I could still feel his warm hand reaching out to me in the night.

Hands, amazing—

Right?

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