Hands
When I was growing up, someone close to me labelled people. My brother was the creative one, the brave one. And by comparison, I was not, even though I wanted to be.
One afternoon, they flipped to a sketch my brother had made and exclaimed how good it was. I recognised it immediately as a tracing of one of my art books, meant as a study. But I kept quiet.
Years later, I failed my life drawing classes. The re-test lasted all day. Fail again, and I would repeat the semester, delaying graduation by six months.
The assignment was to make a small, illustrated book about deer. I sketched deer in various poses, bound the papers with string, and handed the book in. I thought I’d likely fail again.
My lecturer flipped through it and turned red. “Why didn’t you do this in class? Why are you wasting your talent?”
“Talent,” she said.
There is an old story. A young couple started poor but became rich. The husband needed to entertain, but the wife couldn’t bring herself to spend. They gained a reputation for stinginess, and it affected their business.
A Zen master came, but instead of teaching, he asked her to play janken (rock, paper, scissors). The master kept throwing rock and losing. Then he kept throwing paper and losing at that. After a while, he left.
That night, the wife told her husband: “They say that master is so wise, but he’s no good at all! He kept using one hand and...” She looked at her hand and fell silent.
At the next business party, the entertainment was well done, and at every party after that.
I hesitate when people call my children brave. When they let go of my hands and push down a slide for the first time, I clap. When they hesitate, I hold their hands and help them down. The sun goes down, I keep holding their hands, all the way home.
The janken story is drawn from Zen and the Ways by Trevor Leggett.