I’ve always had a bit of an unnatural, unspoken of obsession with hands. I like hands. They are fascinating, beautiful, able and even those that are absorbed with arthritis or similar still hold some kind of weird appeal.
I like big hands. I like small hands.
I find great pleasure in remembering and watching people’s hands, they’re easy to take for granted.
I like the woman’s hands that scanned my shopping the other day. I like that there was a sign that said “Cannot lift more than #kg’s” and yet she was still there.
The word ‘hand’ has a several positive meanings, take these for example:
noun: ability
noun: a round of applause to signify approval
And what is said about hands:
“In the absence of any other proof, the thumb alone would convince me of God’s existence.”– Sir Isaac Newton
“The hand is the cutting edge of the mind.”
-Jacob Bronowski
I like that humans (if my sketchy memory of Biology and evolution theories hold) are the only beings with a fully opposable/prehensible thumb.
If I had to lose one of my five senses – touch would probably be the last to go.
I bite my nails, I have shocking circulation and relatively regular RSI, but I like my hands. I like that I can do.
I like that I can type fast. I like that I can hold things. I like that I can touch things and feel soft and hard and sharp and smooth.
I like that hands often indicate, ‘to help’. I like that hands can comfort.
I like that my friend Kerryn once pointed to me towards a verse in Isaiah that brings a familiar gesture to an often incomprehensible God.
“I, the LORD, have called you in righteousness;
I will take hold of your hand.
I will keep you and will make you
to be a covenant for the people
and a light for the Gentiles…” (42:6)
I like holding hands.
There is some kind of paradox about hands. So safe – but not.
Open them if you need to.
Hold them if you haven’t.
Lend them regardless.
Marvel and live dangerously.
