Reaching and Holding

My earliest memory is of spinning around and around, dancing and laughing until my spinning grew so out of control that my tiny hand broke right through a window. I vividly recall being thrilled and shocked by the sound of breaking glass. I was two years old, we were living in Germany, and my parents had gone out to dinner leaving me in the care of a housekeeper. She must have rushed me to a doctor’s office because by the time my parents returned home I had a huge bandage up to my right elbow. I remember my mother shrieking with alarm. But it was just a small cut on the hand. I still bear the scar and the juicy memory of how much fuss it all caused.

Try to recall your earliest awareness, the first thing you can remember. I’ll bet it’s about trying to reach out for something nearby, trying to hold on tight. For babies, this grasping is a reflex need to stay connected to the mother. Tiny fingers encircle the mother’s single finger. Once reassured, the tiny hand begins to reach further. The desire to grasp the world is a question our body asks. What is out there? Mother’s hand. And what else? What else is the world made of? The hands want more. They seek information. Just how large is the world, what does it feel like?

Our hands are our oldest companions in the lifelong quest to learn the world. Our most intimate allies, our clever hands reach out to the world and bring it near. Hands love to hold just about anything. Mine get a kick out of wooden spoons, hammers, and ropes. These objects bring intriguing textures with them, as well as the opportunity to grip, to make a fist, to hold on tight. My hands have delighted in holding on to important parts of the natural world like trees, wildflowers, seashells, and rocks. They like to hold tight to other objects and vehicles that move me through the world in new ways.

My hands love the steering wheel of my car, the sense of power they feel when slowly turning the wheel wherever they decide to go. As a girl, my beloved turquoise Schwinn bicycle handles steered me along sidewalks, streets, and paths through the woods. Holding tight to wheelbarrow handles has let me move earth, rocks, leaves, and weeds in order to make a garden or to clean up after a storm. Holding the hand of someone I love, or of a struggling neighbor in need of help, or shaking the hand of someone I’ve just met and marveling at the simple magic of a hand-to-hand contact. Or course there’s arm wrestling too, which the tomboy in me loved to play in grade school. Then there’s holding tight but with some degree of tenderness to a guitar or a shared musical score.

My grandfather taught me to chop firewood into slender pieces of kindling. Patiently watching over me, he guided me through the steps of holding a piece of wood upright with one hand while carefully aiming a small axe into the end grain so that the wood would split neatly. The feel of the axe handle against my palm was instantly pleasurable, and the pride I took in watching a small stack of wood gradually build up rendered me pretty much speechless. I learned that my hands could transform mundane objects into something useful. I treasure both the lesson he gave me and the skill I acquired. Every outdoor barbeque is an excuse for me to show off my craftiness with a hand axe.

My hands also enjoy tasks using scissors, paintbrushes—especially watercolor brushes with their soft, eloquent bristles—and kitchen knives. Cutting carrots into tiny, diced cubes can be joyful for many senses at once: the eyes (they adore orange), the nose (sniffing the subtle, earthy sweetness of cut carrots), and the hands, having to be careful and clever about making those uniform and often exasperatingly difficult tiny shapes.

With practice comes increasing skill, like holding a racquet so it can neatly return the tennis ball or catching a fast-moving softball. Throwing a ball back and forth is easy fun that yields expertise, as you gradually learn exactly where the ball will be and placing your body in the right spot, catching the ball with your hand so that it doesn’t drop.

Holding, grasping, the expertise of the hands, all begins with reaching outward. How much the world expands as we can reach further, higher. We use anything we can get our hands on: stools, steps, ladders. Improvising with tongs, sticks, poles. Standing on tiptoes, or on the shoulders of others. As our reach expands, so does the world.