First Whispers of Spring
& musings on hands
Spring is a look-closely time of year, isn’t it? There are those tiny woodland flowers, like spring beauty and bloodroot, that are fleeting in their length of bloom. Or how about the frothy halo of buds on the trees that burst into leaves on the first extra warm day? It's such a short season in many ways; all too soon it looks like summer. And then there is the riot of colour you might see in a mass of forsythia. Mine is so glorious this year, dressed in a cascade of school bus yellow flowers. Forsythia is the shouter of spring as much as the may apple is the whisperer. I love both.
And the birds are getting up earlier and singing louder every day, hey? I have been enjoying watching he nest building work of the robins and house finches that have chosen my front porch right out my desk window as their haven. What about the morning dew on a spider’s webs? I swear, I’ve seen one, run out of my house with my phone camera, and by the time I get there the light has changed and it’s gone. And the night noises, the crickets and frogs, they will be warming up for the full chorus of summer. All of these subtle, yet splendid details of a season that before we know it are gone again until next year. It is a lovely time right now, and even a good bit earlier than usual. We know that is not necessarily a good thing for nature to rouse a few weeks early, but it has been beautiful to witness. And, dare I say hopeful.
Today I want to share an essay that I wrote several years ago, that I really love. I hope you enjoy it, and, as always, would love your thoughts in the comments below.
Hands
Do you ever wonder how those women and men who are hand models make it through life? Well, me neither, I guess. But thinking of it just now I can hardly imagine doing anything productive without the worry of scuffing up the goods. Wasn’t there a Seinfeld episode about that? George sitting on the sofa with his mother, giving himself a manicure when she hands him the scissors and he screams, “Not with the point facing out!” I remember him walking around with both hands in front of his body, like he was a surgeon getting ready to glove up. Do hand models really walk around like that all day? With cotton gloves on? Do they wear Playtex gloves when they scrub the toilet? Oh, geez, of course not. Hand models don’t scrub toilets do they?Maybe they do. Let’s move on.
I wish I could show you my own hands right now. I just counted seven scratches, one hangnail, a purplish bruise where I got it stuck in the kitchen drain trying to unclog it, and a few weird places where cuticles used to be. I was probably conscientious of how my hands looked when I was younger, but not anymore. It’s nothing to brag about, because I should probably take better care of them, but I haven’t had a manicure, professional or at home, for probably twenty years. As soon as my fingernails start to show white, I trim them. Long nails really make me queasy for hygiene reasons and the few times I grew them out (for the vanity of youth) I learned that they only get in the way of the many things I ask my hands to do.
Hands aren’t made to be kept perfect or treated like porcelain. They were made for work. All kinds of work, and those jobs can change dramatically over the course our lives. Take a look at anyone’s hands and they will tell you a story. I remember being younger and wanting my hands to be worn and rough and wrinkled one day—a sure sign that I have done something with my life. There are many ways of accomplishing great things without our hands, but I’m not speaking of great things here. I am speaking about the gritty stuff. The stuff that gets us dirty, gets under our nails. The stuff we must do, not necessarily want to do. When we can look back on a life knowing that we did the necessary stuff and still made the time to attempt the great stuff, what a beautiful accomplishment.
Think for a minute of several things that are important to you that your hands allow you to do, and then think for a little longer on how many things that would become difficult or next to impossible to do without your hands. I have helped people who do not have the use of their hands to get though their normal day and it is a humbling job. Makes me want to say an extra prayer of thanks for the often neglected pair I call my own.
I can’t feel guilty for not having pretty, painted fingernails or feminine and callus-free palms, but I can feel guilty for not using them to their capacity. For allowing them to be idle when I could be doing something useful, even if it’s just knitting a hat for someone who doesn’t have one, massaging the knots out of a friend’s shoulders, helping an elderly gentleman load heavy groceries into his car, or scrubbing the bathroom floor that hasn’t been scrubbed in, oh, about six weeks.
I’ve always noticed the hands of people I meet. Those most beautiful to me are not the ones with perfectly filed or painted nails. It’s those subtle hands that make me notice. The quiet ones with fingernails kept short out of practicality, maybe just a slender gold band if they are married, earth stains on and under their nails, a scraped knuckle or two, a crooked joint from plucking a stringed instrument for years and years, ink stains from loads of writing and calluses on the side of the middle finger from holding a pen for hours a day over a lifetime.
Several years ago I was photographing a politician for a story who also happened to be a farmer. At the end of our meeting he stood to shake my hand and my colleague’s hand. One of the first things we both said on our drive home was, “Did you get a load of those hands? Those were honest, hard-working hands.” It’s true, they were sandpaper rough, the size of dinner plates and strong with a firm grip, not the typical hands of a politician. It made us appreciate him in a different way than most politicians we might meet. He is a man who knows what an honest day’s work is; rare in that world, I imagine.
One of the most beautiful pair of hands I have known belong to my mother. They are unadorned, yet well-cared for, feminine, yet practical, and they have worked very hard. They have also created some very beautiful art. I have the clearest memories from early childhood of holding and inspecting my mother’s hands while sitting in church, my small fingers traveling every inch of her soft skin, circling her wedding band, lost in the smoothness while psalms were sung and gospels dispensed. It kept me occupied, sort of like a roll of Lifesavers. I remember them smelling like cherries and almonds. Must have been the Jergen’s hand lotion so many of our mothers used.
I’ve never taken care of my hands the way my mother does, but I’m hoping my own children have their own memories of them. I think they will remember that their mother’s hands were not afraid of dirt or spiders, toads or toilets, bloody playground scrapes or even bloody noses. I hope they remember how those hands softly rubbed their backs when they were ill, wiped their noses (even those double-barrel, green stringy things), blotted their tears and held their own small hands, probably way too much, when they were afraid, and especially when they were crossing the street. I hope they think of my hands knitting their mittens, stirring their birthday cakes, spreading the peanut butter on their PB&Js, reaching out across the car, even when they were almost adults, to shield them when I sensed danger. Combing their hair. Softly placing a bandaid on a scape. Tracing the lines of words in a book when they were first beginning to read. And even shaking a finger at them when fear or exasperation made me angry enough to scold them. A mother’s hands do so very much.
Someone once told me that I have farmer’s hands, like it was an insult. “They’re so short and stubby,” he said. Of course he also told me that his own long, slender and well-groomed fingers were the sign of nobility. And I hope that gives him comfort. For me, having the hands of a farmer is right up there with having the hands of a potter, a carpenter, a healer, a midwife, a gardener or a lover. They are the life-giving hands, productive, and never without purpose. I look at my hands with that kind of wonder. Farmer’s hands? What an honour. My ancestors on my father’s side were farmers; I’ve inherited the hands, if not the honourable occupation of them. One that I have yet to live up to, but I’m still trying.
Would love to hear your own thoughts on hands 🩵
If you are still here… enjoy this bit of sarcasm in my response to someone who made a comment on my YouTube video where i was demonstrating pens.
I rather like your disembodied hands moving about as you talk and I have liked it since I began watching your lessons. I can’t see your face, after all, so I get to “see” you through your hands. Rather the same thing, isn’t it?!
I love your response to the disembodied hands comment...bit of a head-scratcher, that, how to showcase stationery without one’s hands 😉.
I’ve spent a lifetime working outdoors and have the hands to prove it. I used to be ashamed of them and even now I occasionally get embarrassed by their wrinkles and knobby joints but mostly I marvel at what they’ve accomplished.
One of my most favourite things nowadays is having paint or ink stains on my fingers. They’re starting to hurt now, and lose a bit of dexterity as arthritis sets in and even that’s a welcome reminder of how hard they’ve worked and how well....and for that, I’m grateful.