The work of our hands...

As I've started on this project, my hands have begun to remember things. Hands have a memory. They might not recall the arithmetic of numbers or anything quantitative, but they have long memories for the way a thing should 'feel'. I can put a shovel in my hand and remember a day long past when my father and I shoveled yards of gravel onto our dirt driveway. The swing of a wooden handled hammer brings to mind a day Dad and I spent roofing the house.

Hands can bring into coincidence the arc of a swing with the straight line of time; something trigonometry, with all its transformations, cannot do. So I swing, and remember, and come to love the thing I work on as an extension of myself. I pour myself into it, but the men who have taught and mentored me are poured in as well. Their stern, careful hands guide my own.

I recently had the pleasure of listening to a Rabbit Room podcast that speaks about work and its importance.