What an extraordinary tool, the human hand. They are with us from the moment we enter the world, silent yet expressive, both a servant and a companion. Hands are more than just extensions of our arms; they are complex instruments that bridge the external world and the inner self. They provide an intricate web of sensory input to our brains, enabling us to feel, create, and connect. They pinch and pull, twist and turn, signaling both precision and power.
Think about it: we use our hands for almost every function in life. They are workhorses, yet they are poets. Do they reflect who we are? Without a doubt. Have you ever been told you have warm hands? Cold fingers? Felt tired hands after a long day or the sting of crampy ones?
Hands are vessels of emotion. They are how we express love—with a caress, a touch, a squeeze. And they are how we express anger or defiance—with a fist tightly clenched or a finger. They bridge the gap between the physical and the emotional, from the formal handshake that seals an introduction or a deal to the deeply personal laying on of hands, imbued with spiritual or healing intent.
For some, hands are tools of trade and survival. Physicians heal with them. Artists create with them. Athletes train them into instruments of skill. And for others, they are canvases, adorned with rings and jewelry, telling stories of culture, commitment, and personality. Yet, hands are also abused, subject to repetitive actions, calluses, and blisters, reminding us that they endure as much as they create.
For me, my hands have been extraordinary companions in a life full of creation and connection. They’ve allowed me to sketch ideas on paper, to write thoughts that echo in others’ minds, to type words that travel far beyond my reach. They’ve been shaped by years of training, becoming instruments of healing as I’ve cared for patients.
They bring joy through the simplest acts: rubbing my wife’s back, throwing a ball for the pups, gripping a paddle for a friendly game of racquetball. Of course, they’ve borne their share of hardship—abused by sports, battered by blisters, worn from the rhythm of work. And yes, sometimes they do complain, with aches and pains that remind me of their tireless service.
But above all, they’ve allowed me to create art, my true passion. In their steadiness and skill, I’ve found the medium through which I can express my innermost self.
So here’s to hands—the tools, the storytellers, the silent witnesses of our lives. Thank you for all you do.
