Hands

I have a deep affection for hands. When I played oboe, the way that instrument fit in my hands and the way my fingers curled and fit and tickled and danced felt like a deep conversation with the music pouring out. When I conducted, I used my hands to shape sound in the air between my musicians and my heart. When I dug in the dirt, I never used gloves as I wanted to make sure I knew the feel of the medium making my gardens. When I work in clay, every twitch my hand makes leaves a trail. I spend a lot of time using my hands, abusing my hands, protecting my hands, and admiring the capabilities held in each person’s hands.

In the new land of COVID-19, and the loss of shaking hands, I feel even more focused on the touch my hands used to know Now my hands are dry from chronic sanitizing. Artists like me don’t feel right when in an extremely clean state.

Maybe, i just need to make a little card…with my hand on it for when I meet new friends. On it, I will write:

My handshake is firm and sure, but don’t mistake confidence for arrogance. My palm is always open to new friends and their ideas. My hands are caring if you need that and won’t take advantage of that generosity with entitlement or assumptions. My hands are strong and tough, but neither forceful nor rough. Handshakes mean that I am honored to meet you, and while fist bump and elbow daps are fine substitutes in contagious times, I primarily wish to give you these sentiments carried by the history of the hand shake.