“Beneath all language, touch is the common gesture…. We can disagree—be Catholic or Muslim or Jewish, be conservative or liberal, corporate or rural—and all the stern walls created by what we think will crumble for the gentle reach of a compassionate hand.”
- Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening
At almost three years old, Noa is teetering on the edge of what it means to make a friend. I saw it last week on the driveway-tears evening, after she went off adventuring with our friends’ son. At one point, I went over to surreptitiously video them in the garden when they weren’t looking. I watched as she inched closer and raised up her arm, just a little, then pulled it down, then put it all the way up around his shoulder. He didn’t seem to notice; he was busy tugging on a tall piece of grass. He edged away in his effort, and she retreated. My heart broke and lifted at the same time.
This single moment has stayed with me. The total vulnerability of it. Instead of the word-path to friendship that most adults would take, she chose a more direct one. She reached out. How very immediate touch can be.
When did I stop trying to make (or keep) friends this way? When did I start seeing words as the only bridge?
***
For decades, I was uncomfortable with any kind of touch with friends. Even as I readily gave hello and goodbye hugs and tried to act very nonchalant about it all, inside it felt prickly and awkward.
These days I find myself leaning into my closest friends when we are sitting side by side and wrapping my arms around their necks for no reason. I’m not sure when this changed. But at some point, I started dismissing from duty the little army of bristling soldiers charged with protecting me. Those soldiers kept me from feeling hurt I didn’t know how to handle; they did their job—they also kept me from relaxing into anything. It didn’t take a whole lot, really. I told a few people a few things I’d held onto, believing no one would understand, and the soldiers started to retreat. Not because of perfect understanding so much as saying these things out loud.
***
At the end of the night, our friends’ son held out a flower for Noa to take home with her. To say goodbye, they put the sides of their heads together slowly. For a split second their heads touched, and then they were off, walking in opposite directions. When it comes to touch, a split second is enough for a memory.
I’m starting to see my comfort with touch as a moment-by-moment indicator of how I’m treating myself. If my arms feel prickly around someone I care about, how can I soften inside or just say the thing? And how many words could a held hand replace?
Beautiful. I could see this whole thing playing out in my mind! I'm also laughing to myself, as I sit here and reflect on my own feelings about touch -- and how yesterday, I told JeeWoo, numerous times, "Please stop touching me." "Okay! I've had enough touch!!" But also -- how much I LOVE when we hug or when he sits right next to me...like pressing his WHOLE side of his body on me while watching a show or when I'm attempting to sleep next to him.
I was also reminded, when I read, "When it comes to touch, a split second is enough for a memory," of the first time he touched me and how much it meant to me. It was during our second meeting with him before we had even gone to court before waiting and waiting for custody. While taking a quick pic of us, he reached out and touched my forehead. It was the most meaningful moment that I will NEVER forget!!!!! Sent it to you. :)
Thank you for this beautiful opportunity in reflection this morning! And please don't feel like you have to reply in the same caliber that I just did. I'm sure this is overwhelming to receive this. ;)