My hands. My hands are the tools with which I find my way. In utero they first grasped each other, tiny thumb circling tiny fingers, feeling and not knowing. The world in all of its utmost complexities is filtered to my brain through those tactile feelers. Dirt and heat and velvet. The wonders of the physical all funneled into phalanges.
They plunge into a countertop canister of white flour and are caressed immediately by the coolness of someone else’s labor of milling. I feel connected, then, at that moment, through my hands, to the desires of humankind; I am working, to optimize my life, made possible by someone else somewhere else doing the same. This is a beautiful moment for me. This is my grace, as I have come to understand the thing. I will repeat this moment countless times, until my hands are tired and worn, the tendons exhausted, and know without knowing that I am Right.
A handful of flour spread from a sufficient height to create a soft barrier between counter and cookie. This action is surprisingly difficult to master. Too close, and the flour is clumped into little mounds that interrupt the flow of the morning, changing the composition. Too far away and suddenly your kitchen is filled with crepuscular rays, motes of flour scintillating in the sunlight streaming through your parted blinds. A balance is needed. Your hands must be deft and strict in their movement, shaking flour free while your fingers manipulate the cascade. Your wrist works; your fingers create.
This life is a good life when it begins tracing fingers through the illuminated air.