Can’t keep my hands to myself

I love the internet. Don’t get me wrong. I can spend hours on end sitting behind my computer, surfing the waves of human emotion transposed across articles, photos, videos, comics, memes, and so on. In one sitting I can be delighted, outraged, teary-eyed, stimulated, dumbfounded, and so on. But I also hate the internet. It straps me to a chair and teaches my fingers to prowl over the keyboard. Permanently crouched above the QWERTY, waiting. Waiting to be inspired. Waiting to be motivated. Waiting to produce something that matters.

But my hands have known more. They’ve known the weight of piano keys, flirting gently with pianissimos and arguing in forte. They’ve known the scruff of sand paper, gliding across the grain, revealing shapes long-trapped in tree trunks. They’ve known the earth that feeds those trees, sweat and dirt mixing into muddy masterpiece across the grooves etched in my palms. They’ve known the slow rub of skin against pencil, the callus that forms, a testament to learning, effort, dedication.

They’ve since forgotten. Shifting instead to the virtual world, letting it control my thinking, alter my attention span, and delete my sense of calm.

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Today, I let my hands do more.I let them warm up the ball of clay. I let them work in concert with a wheel, sculpting into existence … nothing. The misshapen sludge of clay went flying off into the failure pile.

My hands, they’ve forgotten. This is the start of re-membering.

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