No hands.
On a bike, it means that we are gliding, flying, free. Free from our own sense or illusion of control. We are balanced, but not grasping.
Learning to ride a bike, we try to hold on. We are afraid to let go. Balance eludes us, so we clutch, grasp, clinch, and cling--even as we know, somewhere, that all this grasping makes balance impossible.
I think of no hands as an absence, a handicap or infirmity. We can't hold or hold on. We are helpless. We can't even let something slip through our fingers.
As I look back on this week's posts, I'm struck by their nastiness. Ressentiment infuses every word, a grasping, clutching, ressentiment unable to acknowledge that trying to hold on, to control, is what brings everything crashing down. Unable to accept that the sense of agency associated with handed-ness is a fantasy that disavows its own conditions of possibility.
Even so, with no hands you can't even let go.
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