Monday, 29 April 2019

In Praise of Hands


Unknown

In Praise of Hands


The heart may falter but the hand goes on.
Wiser than heartbreak, the cool, eyeless hand
Makes bread, makes mortar, lays the cornerstone,
Tills the slow-answering land.

At eight o'clock the mothers plait and part
Their daughters' hair. The factory whistles rise,
The streets grow vocal. Here, bewildered heart,
Your evident answer lies.

Yesterday dwindles while tomorrow grows.
Today is ours - importunate and soon.
Quick, hands! To work! How fast the morning goes.
The whistles blow for noon.


Jessica Nelson North


"The heart may falter but the hand goes on." I wonder if this is parallel to what the caterpillar does. Weaving a garment, constructing a hibernating-house, a renewal chamber - moving unthinkingly according to some instinct or habit or body-knowledge. Sometimes, in deep grief or shock or confusion/fear, the body acts of itself. The feet bring us to old places, the hands lift and move, perform intricate tasks that we watch as if from a great distance. The body continues forward while the mind is motionless. Hidden and still, though surrounded by bustle, by noise and commotion. What is this state? It's not quite paralysis, it's not quite numbness - what is it? And at some point, the bewildered heart comes to, recognizes the passing time, and joins the hands at their work.








 

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