My brother was born when I was nine years old. When I walked into the room and saw him for the first time I was overcome with joy, I cried and told my mom that he was beautiful. This tiny person lay before me, this miracle of life. With all the wonder he offered, I distinctly remember one thing, his hands. Those tiny hands that looked so much like my own took me aback, the way his tiny fingers grasped mine. It was not until later in my life that I realized how much that moment stuck with me. I did not realize that in that moment I was teaching him the feeling of love that comes through the fingertips. I was offering him security, a promise that the world would be kind to him.
That day taught me my deepest belief. I believe in hands. I rely on their ability to create and destroy their ability to love. My hands receive the world through touch. Which is why I also believe in the human touch, the touch of a mother, the touch a friend, the touch of a lover, even the touch of a stranger. Our ability to touch one another, to let someone know they are cared for is something I value. In my recent experience in love, I have discovered how connected I am to touch. I find that touch stimulates my creative mind I crave touch.
I am emotionally connected with my hands. I feel pain in my palms when my feelings are hurt in the deepest of ways. Many feel hurt inside their ribcage, identifying the pain where the heart rests, but I feel that slow dull ache in my palms not my heart. I believe that my heart resides in the palm of my hands. I feel the burn of love here when I desire my lover. I feel the grate of frustration, the need to dig the fingernails into the flesh of the palm. All my emotion is contained within my hands. More importantly my hands are my actors. They demonstrate my passion, love, desire, and creativity.
I have learned so much from my hands, but the one lesson that I hold tight in my palm is this: Hearts become rooted in the hands that nurture them. My hands are my receptors of the world. In them I believe.
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