It’s all about hands

The camera club I belong to issued a photo challenge for the month to portray hands: any kind of hands doing anything at all. That made me look at my own aging hands – the ones with protruding veins and ‘age’ spots. What started out as a simple photography shoot plan turned into something much deeper and more thought-provoking. As I turned my hands over and over, I began to remember all that they had done in over 70 years and what others’ hands had touched my heart.

When my son, David, was born, the first thing I did was look at his wee hands and count his fingers (and toes). The enormity of the responsibility I now had for this little person, his health, growth, education and general well-being, was outlined there in ten tiny fingers flexing against my breast as he learned to nurse for nourishment.

When I was a little girl, I marvelled at my Dad’s hands. They, and his hearing, were his connection to the sighted world. Totally blind since childhood, his visual world was black. But his true world was vast – full of music and laughter, sounds and smells, and the touches from his friends and family. He was a piano tuner by trade, an accomplished pianist and also a clarinetist. A deeply spiritual man, he spent Sunday mornings listening to local priests and ministers on the kitchen radio while enjoying his tea. He tuned all of their pianos – some he liked to listen to, others, he said, were full of hot air. His hands were never still – always fixing something, building something or playing games with me. I adored him.

With me, his sensitive but strong hands were gentle. He helped me clean my skinned knees when my bike tipped over. The night before my wedding to Ian, he sat on my bedside, just holding my nervous hands. His love and support were unconditional.

My Mum was a concert pianist and music teacher. Her long, slender hands flew over a piano keyboard, teasing out the melodies and harmonies that brought music to life. She also played the violin, viola and assorted other instruments that she taught to hundreds of children in our living room. Outside the door, I’d hear her admonishing aspiring pianists to be more gentle and not hammer on the keyboard so hard. “Let the music flow,” she’d say over and over.

Our house was filled with music every day. It was inevitable that I would learn to play some instruments too. My first foray into that world saw the long fingers of my small hands wrapped around a 1/8-size violin.

Then I added playing the piano – first as a child, then, while pregnant with David, I played for him. It worked! He began to reach up with his little hands and try playing the piano for himself. In his teenage years, he turned his hands to the drumsticks in the cadet band. His Dad’s and Grampie’s hands were there when he needed them for safety and comfort. Mine were always close, ready to soothe an injury or hug away a disappointment. Sometimes, I needed his hugs much more than he needed mine.

Hands create. No art, music, literature, furniture or houses could exist without them. They build things, cradle infants, wipe tears from faces, and offer hugs of love and caring when needed. In sports, they can toss a ball or receive one, swing a bat, lob a golf ball down the green, or hold the reins on a horse. They hover on a keyboard – creating music on a piano and capturing words on a page. In the kitchen, they knead bread, prepare meals and clean up afterward, skin wrinkled from being in soapy water too long.

Hands connect: people to each other, paws to people.

Hands are a marvel. They can do so much. We take them for granted, but as we grow older, and the knuckles ache and gnarl with arthritis, we remember all that we used to do with them and keep trying.

Sometimes, the hands we long to hold are taken away from us. Though it’s been over two years since David died, I still remember those hugs, the moments when we touched so gently. I watched him hold first his infant son and then his baby daughter. His hands built the swing set for their backyard and helped prepare meals for everyone. He shared his love of working with wood in his basement shop with both kids. When I went to Vancouver each year for my annual visit from the east coast, David would proudly show me around his workshop, organized for each project he undertook.

Reaching to the sky, hoping to touch David’s spirit while my upside-down heart is cradled in those hands.