Hands.

There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate

"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," T. S. Eliot


I was looking at my hands lately.  They are not particularly interesting hands, neither large nor small. They have a small scars on them, cuts and burns, the evidence of clumsiness with knives and toaster ovens.  There is a spider-web shaped one on my left hand, but where it came from I don't know; the large red scar on my right, the result of trying to fit a 25 lb turkey in an oven more fitting for a 15 lb bird and getting my hand pinned to the side for my efforts, is mostly faded into nonexistence.

They have done a lot of things, these hands.

They have cast fishing line with my father  and skipped stones with my sons.

They have held crying babies, and changed countless diapers. They have stroked hair and held hands and wiped away tears. They have tied baby shoes and baseball cleats and figure skates.

They have opened books, for myself, for my children, for other people's children. They have patted the bunny.

They have signed countless papers: checks and mortgages and student loans and time sheets and IEPs, with a signature that with each passing year gets slightly more expansive, more defiantly extravagant.

They have written thousands of words, letters (far too few) and papers and, on a few occasions, diary entries.  They have, under pressure, scrambled to complete finals and the Bar exam, stopping only so I could try to rub away the cramping.

They have flown over keyboards, racing to keep pace with the information from my eyes.  They have sat, frozen, on the keys as my brain struggled to produce the right words.

They have dug in the dirt and planted; they have pruned and watered.  Ten years ago -- long enough that I cannot remember how to do it -- they wired light switches and cable jacks.  They have painted walls.

They have touched the stone walls of castles in Scotland, and held a baby sea turtle in Georgia.

They have created: baby blankets and bracelets.  They have drawn and painted. They have made Halloween costumes and Advent wreaths; and helped other hands make collages of buttons and a model of the Santa Barbara mission in Styrofoam and salt clay.  They can wield a knitting needle (not very well), wire cutters, and a charcoal pencil.  They have cooked: Thanksgiving dinners, Easter hams, a chocolate cake for a friend's ordination.  Brownies for coworkers, key lime pie for friends.

T. S. Eliot notwithstanding, they have not, as of yet, murdered.


What of your hands?  What do they say about you?

Are they slender and delicate?  Broad and strong? Are the nails cut precisely, or bitten ragged, or painted in wild colors? Do the fingers taper neatly? Or are they blunt and thick? Are they sure-fingered and nimble, or are they sometimes clumsy? Are they smooth and soft, or covered in scars and callouses?


What have they done? Where have they gone? Have they rappelled up a mountain, or photographed a polar bear?  Played a piano or a guitar? Made sand castles or snowballs? Held a bat, thrown a ball, reached for a finish line? Helped those who had fallen?  Given a pat on the back in appreciation or rested on a shoulder in encouragement? Stroked a lover's cheek or a child's head?


Have they built a house? A dream? A life? A world?