Hands by Rebecca

can guess what kind of musician a new violin student will be just by watching her hands. They announce her style before she ever lifts a bow or presses the strings. Megan is a fidgeter. Her movements are jerky and constant. Her sound is disjointed and when I close my eyes, I feel anxious listening to her. Hannah is eight years old, with dainty little fingers that curiously wander over my nearby belongings. She tells too many stories, but is hard to discourage, because I like hearing her talk. She has a sweet, even tone when she plays that comes very naturally, and obedience that carries her through the difficulties. Rick is an eager kid who plays happily, but without much attention to the sound he makes. His thick fingertips move technically toward the end of a song like a prize. He hasn’t discovered the journey yet. And his sister, who shares the same violin, is used to her own excellence in every other facet of life. She wants this to be easy – like everything else. And when it isn’t, she doesn’t want it at all. Her hands are stubborn, refusing to progress – hoping I won’t notice that she is holding the bow incorrectly or has collapsed her wrist against the violin’s neck. Growing hurts. It takes time for the awkwardness of technique to become second nature to a musician’s hands… there is no instant gratification, because it takes so long to sound good. She wants to stay comfortable. She wants to stay a beginner if advancing means stretching and a period of discomfort. She is seven years old, and already her idea of perfection is an obstacle.

Hands reveal much about us. They give away secrets we think we are keeping… the way we move, the way we touch. Hands are the storytellers of our truest selves. I thought about this while I cooked dinner the other night. I looked at my own hands – too large in proportion to the rest of my body. Broad palms with meaty fingers that don’t taper and come to blunt round tips. They are perfect for the deep pressure my autistic son craves, as well as the massages my husband groans through as I release the knotted muscles deep beneath the skin on his broad back. They are scarred from old warts and mishaps – like the haircut I gave Leah, snipping deep into my flesh along with a curtain of her wet hair. They are the feminine version of my father’s. I used to sit by him in church and trace the faded line that ran jaggedly between his middle and ring finger from the motorcycle accident that tore it in half. He moved in a weighted way – as if her were always disappointing himself, sparking in anger when he fumbled. The ghost of someone else’s expectations and jeers, and his own conceived failures riding there always. He played the piano, but rarely in my recollection. Only to pass time waiting for his five children to get ready for a trip somewhere. Beatles’ songs. “Michelle”... “Yesterday”... He was good, too – they were complicated arrangements that filled the whole house, not simplified little ditties. A sadness passes through me when I wonder why he didn’t play more. I think he cheated himself.

My mother’s hands are the gentle and strong. They cradle the power to comfort and calm, soothing in illness or strain. When my children were infants and I was desperate for them to stay asleep when I laid them in bed, I tried to imagine how my mother would have done it, slowly and gently releasing them the way I thought she might.

My sister, Rachel and I look nothing alike, but our fingernails have the same funny flimsiness when they grow out at all, warping and curling at the ends. I keep mine stubby – she grows them out to varying lengths. They cover her mouth when we laugh together, and fashion silly gifts for each other to keep close despite the distance. We are different in the most complimentary ways. Both musicians who prefer the inner voices of an orchestra, opting for the bassoon or the viola over the clarinet or the violin (although we can play both). We prefer a duet over a solo any day. Even our singing voices blend perfectly. I would rather sing with her than anyone else.

Cooking, of course, reminded me of David. I used to watch him, enraptured, as he made a meal. His capable hands cut quick even slices, butting his knuckles against the blade. He seasoned carefully, later cupping the steam as it rose from a pot and pulling it to his face to catch the aroma. Anything he created was made with precision and a kind of tenderness and grace. We live the way we move.

Leah has gorgeous hands. They are able and feminine, with lovely slender digits. Her motions are reserved and comfortable. I can picture her scratching feverishly in a journal, putting her soul into her work. Her hands are like her heart – warm and fruitful.

Chadd’s are rough and thick, big enough that one of them spread out spans a keyboard when he types. He moves with confidence, never bothering to over-articulate with gestures. They have obvious power, kept controlled in a casual way that comes with years of knowing his own strength. When I hold them, my own feel swallowed up.

Hands are like eyes. They give away, they take in. They communicate. Connect. Express. Our hands carry out our true intentions and our desires. They give away who we are more authentically than our words… to anyone who bothers to see.