Inside a cave in a narrow canyon near Tassajara
The vault of rock is painted with hands,
A multitude of hands in the twilight, a cloud of men’s palms, no more,
No other picture. There’s no one to say
Whether the brown shy quiet people who are dead intended
Religion or magic, or made their tracings
In the idleness of art; but over the division of years these careful
Signs-manual are now like a sealed message
Saying: “Look: we also were human; we had hands, not paws. All hail
You people with the cleverer hands, our supplanters
In the beautiful country; enjoy her a season, her beauty, and come down
And be supplanted; for you also are human.”
Robinson Jeffers, Hands
Hands are strange. Hands are beautiful. Hands are sad. Have you ever seen a person with trembling hands? Don’t you just want to hold them and tell them that you love them? Or, have you ever seen a person that talks with their hands? Don’t you even more want to hold them and tell them that you love them? Holding hands is so magical.
I’m going to need to marry a man who will allow me to intertwine our fingers together all the time. Also, he must have a beard. And a giant parka. And a wool hat.
Hands can be so irrelevant, but there are boutiques dedicated to making them look pretty. Because they’re not irrelevant at all. Soft hands, rough hands that need lotion, hands that caress, hands that strike. Sweaty hands, firm hands, tender hands, funny hands.
Don’t you simply love having your hand? Pat yourself on the back with your hand.