She slipped off her gloves and dragged her chair closer to the electric heater, the freezing March air outside biting through the streets of Dublin City. Unzipping the guitar case, she began strumming with effortless ease, her fingers gliding across the strings with a natural grace, as if the cold had never touched her. It was utterly spellbinding, filling the air with music that seemed to flow from her very soul. Coming from a Pakistani city where I had never seen a girl play guitar, I was captivated not only by her free-spirited nature but also by the beauty of her hands. Her nails were trimmed short and neat, without any nail paint, a practical decision that reflected her belief that beauty lies in purpose, not embellishment. It was Eva Louise, my Irish classmate and dear friend, who intrigued me when I moved to Ireland in the mid-2000s for higher education. She always kept her guitar strapped to her back, no matter how windy or rainy the unpredictable Irish weather got. As a biker and a guitarist, Eva seemed to defy both the elements and expectations with her spirit. In the lush grounds of our Irish campus, she played, and her music brought joy to our classmates. On drives from Dublin to Belfast to meet Nobel Laureate Mairead Corrigan, we often talked about the beauty of art and the hands that created it. We loved to sing my two favorite songs, “Upon the fields of barley,” where each note lifted, and “If You Miss the Train I’m On,” a bittersweet tune that carried a shared joy, much like the Hands of Joy, which symbolize happiness, celebration, and the act of sharing positive energy.
From an early age, I’ve been fascinated by hands, even before I fully understood the meaning of creativity and beauty. Whether it was my mother’s hands, knitting and crocheting with effortless grace, or my brother’s hands, painting portraits in seventh grade, I was drawn to their quiet power. Both created beauty in simple yet profound ways, sparking my first sense of artistry and wonder. Hands possess a transformative power, carrying within them stories of creation, love, and sacrifice, transcending the limits of language to convey deeper truths. During the months I spent with Kaitlin Barker Davis, my cherished companion and peace writer who documented my biography, I witnessed how every movement of her hands and every stroke of her pen seemed to pulse with meaning. As a writer, her fingers traced the page, weaving worlds of thought and emotion, turning simple words into profound reflections. Her hands, both graceful and steady, cradled the essence of untold stories, each line a whisper of something far beyond the surface of language. Her hands were more than mere instruments of action, they were Hands of Reflection, inviting introspection and meditating on the deeper truths of existence, shaping not only stories but the very fabric of understanding itself.
Over time, I’ve deeply come to realize that our hands are not just means of execution, but sacred vessels through which we give life, expressing our deepest intentions and nurturing the world around us. My soul sister, Maya Heffernan, whom I call my wings, is a living testament to this truth. As a therapist, she holds the hand of every client with compassion, helping guide them toward healing and growth, yet it is in the garden and kitchen where her hands truly work their magic. In the garden, they work with the earth, coaxing seeds to awaken and plants to stretch toward the sky, breathing life into the soil. I lose myself for hours in her front yard, where life blossoms in vivid hues. Among the foliage, my favorite cacti stand proudly, their spiky forms a perfect contrast to the softness of the world around them. In the kitchen, her hands weave nourishment and love into meals, always ready to share, always giving. Maya’s hands are never idle; they are instruments of generosity, offering food to the community, sharing resources with friends, and turning adversity into opportunity. Her hands remind us that life is nurtured not just in quiet moments, but in the generous acts we offer to the world. Maya’s hands are Hands of Life, through planting, cooking, and giving, she nurtures growth, fosters connection, and breathes life into everything they touch.
In quiet moments, as I thread a needle or pick up a paintbrush, I feel the presence of my mother’s hands of wonder. I see my brother’s hands of inspiration, pulling dreams into reality, a reminder that creation is an act of love. Eva’s hands of joy, strumming her guitar, teach us that beauty resides in every note of life. Kaitlin’s hands of reflection write stories that spark contemplation, while Maya’s hands of life nurture the earth with patience. These hands, each unique, reveal that beauty lies not just in what we see, but in what we do and create. Through them, the stories of those we love to unfold, and in their grace, I find the deep beauty of life. To honor all these hands, I love to make embroidery during my moments of creativity, weaving a tribute to the magic of their touch. Though I may never master it as my mother did, embroidery is my way of honoring the silent creators, the hands that shape the world, leaving their imprint on all we create.
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