Now What?! The power in your hands

I am a little obsessed with hands.

You can tell so much about someone by looking at their hands, whether it’s the fact that they work with them, keep them manicured, or gesture heavily with them. It isn’t just the outward appearance of hands with which I am obsessed but also what they symbolize and the power they wield.

I personally give myself a little manicure every Sunday evening. My routine is to put on cuticle removal gel, soak my hands individually for about 5 minutes in warm soapy water, push back and clip my cuticles, and massage a thick cuticle cream into my skin.

Sometimes I polish and sometimes I leave them natural, but the routine and self pampering are what is important to me in the long run. I don’t judge those who don’t care as much about the appearance of their hands (or those who pay someone else to do what I do on Sunday evenings for myself). If I were not on such a tight budget, I would probably get regular professional manicures, too. Sometimes I work in the yard or do projects around the house but for the most part, my hands see the most action on the keyboard of my computer.

Those who work with their hands – whether in a workshop, art studio, factory or farm – have a very different appreciation for theirs. They are not for show but rather act as tools of livelihood and survival.

When someone works with their hands for a living, taking care of them looks completely different from my little routine. They have to stay protected and remain strong. These folks have hardened hands in a lot of cases, and you can see they have lived. When you shake an older, calloused hand, you know that person knows what it is to sleep hard from exhaustion and wake up with the sun.

As a picture-taker by nature, I have more than my fair share of hand photos in my collection, from babies’ to couples, children’s to older, seasoned hands. I don’t have clear photographs of my grandmother’s hands but I wish, more than anything, that I did.

Memories escape me of her hands not being twisted from swollen joints and rheumatoid arthritis, but I certainly know there was a time when she could grip her cleaning rag with strong and straightened fingers. I would study my Nana’s hands constantly both with my eyes and my own hands. I loved the softness of her skin, which was reflective of her age as well as the fact that she was no longer working with her hands.

I now see the same protruding veins and swollen joints in my mother’s hands. She finds me looking at them regularly, and I have learned from the mistake of not capturing pictures of Nana’s. I have dozens of pictures of my parents’ hands together, mine with my mom’s, generational pictures of my mom, myself, and my son and so many more variations.

I wrote a poem for my parents’ anniversary one year and framed a picture of their hands together from their wedding and the same pose 25 years later. The poem was titled, ‘Hands,’ and illustrated a couple’s hands through the course of their marriage: how they comforted the spouse’s hands through illness and death; hugged the spouse through weddings and births; and clapped to celebrate the spouse through graduations and awards.

Most importantly, the age on both sets of hands represents the time and experiences that are a badge of honor.

I cannot write about hands without acknowledging that they also can represent trauma, aggression by gesture, and (at the height of the pandemic) a potential vehicle of super-spreading. And, at times, they can be gross. An example that makes me crazy is when someone working in food service wears the same pair of gloves to take money and then makes my sandwich.

My infatuation with hands will continue, as will my appreciation for their beauty and power. Fortunately, I have found a partner who is just as fascinated by them as I am and notices lines and veins in the same manner. Some of my favorite pictures of the two of us include ours together.

I recommend not studying others’ to judge but rather to understand and learn of their stories through their hands. Everyone’s hands tell a story, and even if it may not be interesting or relatable, it’s a story nonetheless.

I suggest taking the time to hear it.