Dear Hands,

The date is Nov. 4, 2023. It’s always been difficult for me to value aspects of myself, but with the Thanksgiving season underway, I’m going to give it all I have.

In these few days, I have been looking forward to what my life will be like. There is only one vision I hope to have, and that is views of my left hand blackened in smudges of ink, my fingerprints stamped on clay slabs, and my sleeves stained with acrylic paint. Granted, the paint may ruin some outfits. Not to blame you, though. It’s a result of my creative expression, executed beautifully by you.

With you, I knead, I write, I paint.

Kneading. Caressing pin tools and pulling up the wheel-thrown cylinder carefully, you are careful and destructive. Your delicate tendencies allow room for beautiful clay bodies playfully thrown, trimmed hastily off-center, and prolongedly dipped in glazes of celadon and Vegas red. Sometimes your fingers slip, but it is artful. I have never met anyone so skillful in the accidental as you are.

Writing. You help me formulate things beyond the realm of tangibility, and you are the medium between my intricate thoughts and the paper. I only have to feel for you to flow. You conjure rhythm, continuity, and tranquility.

I hear the click-clacks on the keyboard

tap tap, tap tap.

as you carry out the ideas in my head

To most, a paper is just what it is; it is instead

much, much more to me:

a dormant volcano that flows with creative essence,

all made possible by your presence.

Painting. Paintbrush between thumb and forefinger, you press its tip to the hard paper. I stop and close my eyes, breathe in, out. Slowly, I open them, and I visualize. You draw the human figure–cylinder, egg, cylinder. Add some arms, if you’re really confident. Most of the time you don’t, but that’s okay. You are the shaky, unsure, human part of me. One of my favorite parts of me.

Dear Hands,

It’s nothing you do that matters; more importantly, it’s how you make me feel. Maybe my ceramic vase doesn’t balance, maybe my poetry submissions were rejected from publishing, maybe my art is secondary to more experienced artists. Skill is useful, but to me, what’s most important precedes even skill: feeling. And to feel is to be human.

So I ask you to deliver this message to yourself.

Dear Hands,

You have allowed me to figure out parts of myself I could have never found on my own. With you, everything is a journey of self-discovery and embracement of my flaws. I thank you for your reminder that it’s okay to be rejected, to make mistakes, to fail. I thank you for your persistence, your diligence, and your ability to express. Most of all, I thank you for expressing the human part of me.

With the fullest heart,

Caitlyn Chau