Running feet, restless hands

My grandmother used to say that we had “running feet,” limbs that kept us on the move, exploring the world. Indeed, they took us from home to school, from the park to the library, pedaling bicycles, chasing each other. My beau teases that I have “restless hands,” limbs that must be working on something at all times. He’s right. A few times now, he has sat on my hands to keep them still. As an editor, I type all day long, for most days. When not clicking and clacking, I write with pen on paper. I paint. I knit. I sew. I construct. I obsessively make things. When I talk on the phone, I doodle. On dry land, I practice cupping and angling my hands for the proper swimming stroke.

Self-portrait,circa 2000

I think my restless hands have nothing to do with muscle movement or a nervous tic. I don’t drum them to pass time; I certainly don’t run to scrub the toilet to give them something to do. Rather, my hands are my most immediate tools for expression, in all the forms that I choose. Some people use their voices. Others, their bodies. Mine are, without a doubt, my hands.

I have not made something with my hands in over a week. They feel restless to create.