I have a treasured photo somewhere in the cloud that I took of four generations of hands—my 100-year old grandmother, my mother, myself, and my daughter. In black and white it is stunning. You can clearly see whose hand belongs to who. All the years my grandmother had experienced were captured in her gnarled knuckles, age spots, and prominent veins. My mother’s emerging wrinkles and my own taut tendons show our age, while my daughter’s twenty-year-old hand is smooth and unblemished.
It’s funny, but I have a distinct memory of being enamored with the beauty of my hands when I was in middle school. In an interview then for one of the school’s hostesses, I was asked what my favorite feature was. I said it was my hands. I also remember television and print advertisements for Ivory Liquid featuring mother and daughter hands, asking viewers to guess which hands belonged to which woman. I thought that I could be in that ad campaign when I was older. I even entertained the idea of a career as a hand model when I grew up. But I never gave much thought to all the things that hands could do at that time.
Hands invite us to explore our world in a deeper way. Yes, we use all five senses to experience our surroundings, and touch provides a unique layer to that exploration. The rough texture of a tree trunk, the soft skin of a baby, the coarseness of burlap, the heat from a mug of coffee, the smooth or rough coat of a pet—without touch, these objects would lose some of their dimensionality.
Beyond the sensation of touch, think of all the things your hands can do. I tried to make a list, and it could easily run into the hundreds: snapping, opening a door or a jar, waving, typing, finger-picking a banjo, clasping them in prayer, throwing a softball, skipping a stone. I have to stop, or I could devote this entire essay to counting them off. I invite you to take a break for a moment and try enumerating some more. Also try thinking about each item without involuntarily doing the motion. It’s hard. For me anyway.
Perhaps the most impactful thing hands can do is touch another human being—in both positive and negative ways. A slap or punch is a violent use of hands. A handshake is a greeting, but it can convey more than that with its grip intensity or its length.
With a hug or a hand on a knee or shoulder, we communicate human connection more effectively than words alone can. Human touch can heal. I certainly experienced this and practiced this in my medical clinic. Attentive listening and a gentle hand led my patients to know that I thought their concerns were important to me. When health concerns are validated,—with words and actions, healing can follow more easily.
When words seem ineffectual in the face of sorrow or grief in another, your touch can convey your connection and solidarity.
So take a moment, press your palms together, and offer up a word of gratitude for hands.