Tabhair dom do lámh

In the ‘hand-winding’ system of the Irish sean-nós, a sympathetic listener grasps the singer’s hand; or, indeed, the singer may initiate first contact and reach out for a listener. The singer then might close his eyes, if they are open (sometimes he might grope for someone, like a blind man) and appear to go into a trance; or his eyes, if open, might focus on some remote corner of the room, as if his gaze could penetrate the fabric, and take him to some antique, far-off happening among the stars.
- Ciaran Carson from Last Night’s Fun: In and Out of Time with Irish Music

I won't pretend to understand how Irish sean-nos (old style) singing works, but I saw it once, the real thing, I think, in a pub on an island in the west of Ireland. This pub was full of tourists and regulars, all settled in for the afternoon with their pints and sandwiches and nowhere better to go. I remember songs being sung, and perhaps some dance tunes being played. Maybe two couples got up and danced a set to the tune of Sally Gardens. One particularly extroverted singer was holding court in the center of the room. He wore a sequined baseball cap and an expectant grin. He sang a short, silly song about never counting your chickens "when you're dealing with the women." I think a lot of us were singing along on the chorus, but I can't be sure now.

When he stopped singing, the pub quieted down and attention began to focus on a shy-looking woman seated in a nearby chair. She looked uncomfortable and mildly distressed, as if she were suffering from some temporary affliction. She closed her eyes and stretched one arm into the air behind her head, reaching out for comfort, or courage (it seemed to me). The hand of another woman found hers and the winding began. The woman standing behind the singer began to turn the singer's hand slowly, the way I imagine you used to have to turn the crank on a victrola to make the music happen. Slowly, slowly, the turning brought the singer around to the song, or the song around to the singer--a song that would not be released until a sympathetic hand helped to wind it out and around us fortunate listeners. Fifteen years later I am still grateful to that singer for her song, and to the woman standing behind her, the owner of the turning hand.

Sometimes our songs won't come out. Maybe we get wound up too tightly and we need a gentle hand to unwind us. Or perhaps it is that every creative act, every song sung, every poem set down is a collaboration among the turned and the turning. We grope blindly for the hand that will pull us of out of ourselves, reconnect us with a community, give us a reason to sing the song we carry in our innermost core and to believe that it is sufficient for something. And we are all turners of hands, bearing the responsibility for the safe passage of one another's songs.