Sunbonnet Soliloquy

By Jewell Ellen Smith

Dust in the Hands of Alexander the Great

“Only the dust of the grave is ours after death.” Or so declared the wise men of ancient Persia as they told and re-told the legend of the hand of Alexander the Great.

Alexander the Great (356–323 B.C.), the King of Macedonia, conqueror of Greece, the Persian Empire, and Egypt, took a fever in Babylonia and died at the age of 32.

And the legend has it that when the mighty young conqueror’s body was being wrapped in muslin for burial -- as the custom was -- no band of muslin, no matter how thick and strong, could hold his right hand at his side. As soon as the hand was bound, it would bend itself like a cup and reach out from the litter on which the body was carried.

“Ah,” cried those in attendance, “Alexander’s soul cannot rest until the hand is filled.”

So they all sought to find what the hand wished to hold. They tried gold, then sapphires, then rubies. The hand rejected them all. Nothing seemed to satisfy the hand.

Finally an old man, wearing the rags and tags of a beggar; picked up a fistful of sand and pressed it into the cupped hand. The fingers grasped the soil and the hand of Alexander the Great was content to be bound.

It was then that those standing near murmured the Persian saying that “Only the dust of the grave is ours after death.” But the beggar said, “Alexander loved Persia so much that his hand longed for the feel of Persian sand.”

This tale from ancient times can remind us of our own hands -- not what our right hand may grasp for when it is cold and lifeless, rather what it reaches out to claim here and now -- in this Year of Our Lord 1987. Do we spend our days grabbing for gold, sapphires, rubies?

Not many of the things my hands have held this year really matter. There was the broom, the mop, the dish towel, pots and pans, jelly and pickle jars, the dial on the washing machine, knobs on the TV set, the typewriter, the steering wheel of the car, a few books.

No, it was more than a few books. It was a good many books. (Some of these my hands threw aside as soon as my eyes saw the disgusting accumulation of words that painted dirty, dirty pictures. In passing, let me digress a minute to say that I hope to live long enough to see the current fashion of putting filth on every other page of a novel disappear. Surely, surely, any skilled author who so desires can write without dipping his pen into the gutter.

But, back to this essay on what the hands may hold, i.e., what things of permanent value.) If hands could speak to the heart, they would report that the only times they ever touch anything -- or accomplish anything -- of lasting worth is when they are allowed to reach out to others. Such as, when they are instructed to send a card or a loaf of bread, or any symbol of caring, to someone who is sick or sad or both. When they are told to clasp the hand of new friends and thus say “welcome”, or, to clasp the hand of departing old friends and say “farewell, God bless you.” When they are permitted to hug a child and show him love. When they are reminded to write down a thought that might encourage even strangers. When they are commanded to loosen the pursestrings and help the poor. Or, finally, when they fold themselves in prayer.

Therefore, though it is a serious, sobering, almost morbid thought, should we not consider what will fill our hands when the muslin is rolled out for us!

It need not be the dust described in the legend of Alexander the Great, if we permit our hands to do good things. Always.

Published August 1987. Click your browser’s “Back” button to return.