These Hands

My hands are the most valued tool of my trade, my livelihood. Perhaps it has been the bitter cold in the Abbey these days. Days so cold you cannot feel your fingers, making them frustrating and useless things at the ends of my wrists. These days I’ll admit that I have a bit of an obsession with other people’s hands.

Jester, you remember him right? My sword swinging friend who has trained in like every known form of combat. I posted a clip of Galahad and I sparing with him once. Anyways, this weekend when I saw him I was complaining of a pain in my back. I thought that perhaps I had cracked a rib (or at the very least bruised it) during a takedown scene with Rossi the week earlier. Who knew that such a tiny girl could mule kick so damn hard? Anyways. Jester takes his huge, scared hands and begins to feel about my back. Poking and asking for feedback, he finds the spot and with one swift motion I jerk up with a joint popping crack and the pain is gone. Amazing, hands that could easily kill a man with a pocky stick also contain the power to heal.

Then there was Little Red Riding Hood. I have always dreamed of having lots of green in the Abbey. Great stands of living things to offset the industrial nature of the ancient building that my shop lives in. Now the crew and I are so overbooked that tending to such a task is just not feasible. Along comes LRRH, she is more than happy to share her gift of greenery with us in exchange for some rope time with me. And so there she is on a Friday afternoon. Happily digging and repotting our poor spider plants, dirt under her nails and gleeful working with her hands tied together.

Nerdy has tiny hands. Some might write them off as weak due to their size, but don’t be fooled. If you ever get the offer to have her give you a massage you will discover that those tiny hands (much like the rest of her) contain a great strength. We have a relationship where I share whatever skills she wants to learn. Her last lesson was in how to deliver a really solid punching scene. It was with great pride we watched her top a boy on Saturday night. He was bound, suspended like a heavy bag so that the trio of women could take turns punching his chest and back. There was this moment when she, hair disheveled and grinning a fierce glee, that she got it. Top Space, the whole “why we do this” and she just glowed. The next morning, hung over from the endorphins, we inspected the bruises on her small knuckles with pride.

For Dancer’s birthday I’ve had to train my hands to learn a new skill.