#17 TATWTD: A HAND-Y THING
Look, I’m not complaining (spin), it’s just that since we moved to this small apartment and I rid myself of probably half my books, there are occasions when—like this morning—I need a particular book, and I know (knew) exactly which shelf to walk to for its retrieval. Only, that shelf was in my roomy office in a century’s old three-story house. That house, that room, that shelf, that book are no longer a part of my search for the book, “HAND.” That book informs the reader about the cooperation between a hand and the brain that controls it. But, I no longer have that book. Consequently, I’ll simply turn to what has been on my mind of late. My left hand.
I am “right-handed.” That is very nearly every task that requires any sort of precision by the motion of a hand gets allocated by my brain to the hand from which it expects the best task result. Seldom is Brain wrong.
“But wait!” as the sales pitch goes, “There’s more!” And in the case of my body, there is more—there is left hand. I’ve been thinking about it.
Like the right, my left hand receives commands from the brain. Not, as once assumed, exclusively from the frontal lobe but rather, or at least more likely, from a region in the brain called the posterior parietal cortex (PPC), down through the spinal cord and finally to neurons controlling hand muscles.
Why? I wonder. Why, brain, why lend preference to one hand over the other?
Brain hasn’t replied, so I will hold that question for my molecular biologist friend when next I see him. Meanwhile, I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking about my Left Hand. If you happen to be left handed, as many in my family are, simply insert “right” for “left” in the following thought.
Left Hand
Assistant Hand
Stand In, Understudy, Associate, Junior Partner, Underling, Apprentice, Side-kick, Caddy, Vice-chairman, Woman (couldn’t resist).
The hand itself is a marvel. Had I still owned my book, “HAND,” by Frank R. Wilson, I might expound. Fortunately for this blog post, expounding is not possible. But let me say this: the human brain—not only mine—always distorts the shape of the hand. All brains think (do brains think?) the hand is wider and shorter than it is. Blame it on Brain.
I will say this—the Hand is a complex and fragile object. Muscles, joints allow for a vast range of movement. Wield a surgical knife next to a kidney or throw a crab-cage over the side of a ship; tendons, nerves, blood vessels, very thin bones right under thin skin (some of us more thin-skinned than others), a bit of protective fat, and a pad of tendons to protect the palm and you’ve got Hand. For most of us, One Left, One Right. Right brain controlling the left, Left brain controlling the right. 27 separate bones, 14 finger bones alone. I read somewhere (in my missing book?) that about a quarter of all the bones in our body are found in our hands.
Hands: In my case, my right hand receives the grocery bag from the clerk, hands it to left, and says, Here, carry this.”
My right hand stirs the pot, opens the computer lid, taps the power button, reaches to close the window against the sound of blowers clearing a nearby sidewalk (really? We need noisy, fuel-guzzling, back-packed mechanisms to do what a straw broom can manage nicely?), reaches for the hanger first, places eyeliner, leads in the tying of a shoe, pulls a book from a shelf, holds the tissue for my nose, initiates nearly everything my hands might eventually do together. True, LH gets to command the gears and throttles of our boat, but RH prepares the coffee and punches on the iPad and brings up the voyage charts.
I’ve been thinking about my Left Hand. I’ve been thinking how thankful I am that Left Hand does not revolt, argue, complain, or demand dominance. I like that Left Hand can, on its own terms, reach over and cover the Right Hand when RH is involved in a straightforward handshake, and by that gesture, LH adds a feeling of care or affection or sometimes, concern. LH asserts that an element of emotion might help. Right Brain fires instruction down the spinal column to the LH, and instantly makes things better.
My left Hand has for sixty-one years now, carried a symbol of what my body and brain have agreed to, have held to, have battled with, wept over, celebrated, challenged, and maintained. On my Left Hand’s finger third from the thumb, is a small circle of gold that locks into itself one non-noteworthy emerald-cut center diamond and four diminutive baguette-cut diamonds, two on either side. LH wears the only outward clue to my life that anyone can accurately interpret, and consequently, directly assert knowledge about me. “She is married.” She is willing for anyone to know that. My Right Hand may well be dominate, even commanding; right hand may get there first when it comes to picking up a piece of pizza or grasping a toothbrush but while RH rules, helper LH wears a quiet, weighty statement. The balance of power is noteworthy.
