HANDS

            We were a small group, yesterday, for our Sunday meditation, but I had a deep, deeply pleasurable sit. We sat together in silence for an hour, and afterwards moved quietly on into another hour of conversation. How lovely to talk, to listen, to delve into increasingly rewarding depths, to explore shared thoughts, feelings, experience…

            Our conversation led, at one point, to the subject of hands. I described the meditation on the hands that I’ve recently been practicing—by myself, and in the company of my other small sitting group. I start with the breath, of course, bringing gradual attention to the whole body. In the head, I pause to alert the attention to the sense organs—the ears, the mouth, the nose, the eyes. 

            When we reach the hands, I start with their physical properties, pausing first at the fingertips with a focus on the fifth sense, touch; and dwell for a while on the subtle bone structure of the fingers and the hands, their articulation, their power, the opposable relationship between fingers and thumb, the controlling function of the wrist.

            With full and sharpened awareness of the physical properties of the hands, I move on to what I think of as their triple function: to reach out for and grasp; to hold, to cling on to; and release… I ask myself (not searching for the answer, the question is enough in itself), what am I grasping for that causes me suffering? What am I unnecessarily, sometimes desperately clinging to? And… what can I release, what can I let go? If answers arise in the form of insights, I remind myself not to cling even to those!

            I have found this to be a rewarding, fruitful meditation. It sounded good to my friends as I described it, and my description led us into a wonderful discussion of the hands. I recalled my father’s hands, the strong, slender fingers of an accomplished craftsman, a fine carpenter and turner of beautiful wooden bowls; the hands he raised at the altar, or made the sign of the cross over his congregation, in blessing. He believed strongly in their healing power, the laying on of hands. With them, too, he would bless the food at the start of each meal. He took great pride in his skill at "carving the joint" (it had a different meaning in those days--a joint of meat on the bone!) And how cleverly he worked with his fingers to roll his own smokes (not what we'd call a "joint", these days!)

            What a richness of association we discovered, the infinite uses of the human hand: to stroke and caress—or slap and spank. To work—the calloused hands of the farm worker, the tender hands of the nurse. To feed ourselves, and tend to the other, multiple needs of the body. To shake hands (in the days such an act was still admissible! Sadly, now superannuated by fear of the virus). To salute, showing respect. To point, in accusation or inclusion. We thought of the politician with his audience; of the conductor with his baton, the musicians with their vibrating stringed instruments, their flute and oboes, their brass and their drums.

            We thought of how we make art, skillfully, with the brush or the palette knife; and the role that hands play in the paintings and sculptures humans have made for so many centuries. Red hands on the walls of ancient caves. Fingers reaching out for each other in Michelangelo’s act of Creation. Hands raised in blessing in images of the saints. The tiny, fat fingers of baby Jesus, the tender hands of his mother, Mary. Hands nailed to the cross. We thought of the devil finding work for idle hands; the thrill of masturbation that I learned as a boy was a sin.

            We thought of language—not only the sign language of the deaf, but how the hands appear in idiom or metaphor: give me a hand, lend me a hand. Hands across the water. Churchill's victory sign, cigar and all. (I wonder if its origin was the cheeky British version of the American middle finger, two fingers delivered underhand? FU.) It has now morphed into the international peace sign. Yes, and of course the middle finger itself. FU. Hands up, hands in the air, surrender (hands pointing the pistol, the rifle!) The iron fist, the velvet glove, the open hand. The hand of cards, dealt out by the dealer. The magician’s clever hands, hiding, palming, revealing. The palm of the hand held up forcefully: stop! The hand beckoning, pointing: come! Go! Hand on heart. Hand in hand. Holding hands…

            I’m scratching at the surface.

            Together we thought, what a wonderful book awaits the writing. Such a richness of function and meaning and association in our human lives. I envisioned such an undertaking. Would I still be able to find the energy and commitment to write it? Here I am, already engaged in a project that is surely and intimately related: connection. We use hands, of course, to physically connect. We reach out to each other. And here, this is one small chapter already written—a chapter that could expand into a series of chapters, a whole volume unto itself. Just imagine!