I like my hands. While meditating I feel warmth and comfort from being aware of them holding each other lightly. My hands are friendly, and they are my friends.
My body has been through a lot of strain and stress in recent months: surgery, unfriendly toxic chemical infusions, temperature swings, lack of sleep, blood draws, more blood draws, endless blood draws. The forearms inside my elbows wear tattoos from the bruises of botched draw attempts. My right hand recently offered its healthy vein to the phlebotomist to get the process over with, with ease. Thank you, hand. Then my left hand caressed the wounds. Thank you too, hand.
Weight loss from chemotherapy now requires me to make extra preparations, coaxing clothing to fit, arranging organic meals and snacks, opening small containers, counting tablets, counting capsules, counting drops and moving them from hand to mouth. In those roles my hands work as well as they can.
My hands warn me of anxiety as they wring each other before I am aware. Then they smack each other hand-in-fist when I decide, That’s enough! They join each other with fingers aligned vertically, right before my eyes, in relief each time the ‘funk’ lifts. Sometimes they clap spontaneously when they realize how privileged is a life with a view into the stunning beauty of nature.
My hands work well. They are obedient, giving more than 100% to my mind’s commands. They raise up in open surrender. They wave to friends, even strangers when I ask them to. They support my head when sleeping irritates my neck. They willingly get dirty when working outdoors, then willingly submit to being scrubbed or held still to trim nails. Both hands like being gloved when they’re cold, and respond well to skin creams, fragrant or not. They both relax when loved by my wife’s caresses, yet are always ready to serve again.
Without hands, life would be a constant itch-you-can’t-scratch. Yes, I like my hands. I applaud them.