During a recent Toastmaster meeting, my friend prompted a response from me with this question "Name one thing that you did a lot as a kid but less so since growing up". Being the dimwit that I am, I made some hasty response about being able to take more naps. There wasn't a whole lot to elaborate on; I used to sleep a lot, and now I am an insomniac, case closed. Yet, the question continued to gnaw at me after I was done; after all, I have got to admit the whole nap thing sounded really lame once you hear it. That, and I have just revealed to a room of relative strangers that I have a sleeping disorder- an infliction that one can only assume is a minor manifestation of the psychotic iceberg that is I.
Unfortunately, like so many of my other serendipitous moments, revelation came late and I came across a blundering idiot. But let us not dwell on that, but rather upon that delayed light bulb. I believe the answer I was looking for at the time was “Touch”. I can sense some of you cringed away from me when I said that- colorful notions perhaps intruding that Victorian attic of your soul? Regardless, amongst the many things that I did as a child but significantly reduced in frequency once attaining adulthood was touching. I was myopic at an early age, developed selective hearing later on, and was tongue tied for the most part. The one faculty of sense that remained intact throughout my formative years was my sense of touch. As a child, I liked to feel things, to explore and familiarize myself with the contours of whatever object that is within reach. I love how I can tickle my fingers with the corners of my blanket; it was a source of security, entertainment and comfort to feel the blanket there at my fingertips. I enjoyed caressing the ivories, the music I could make, the emotions I could emulate simply by varying pressure on different keys – its magical.
Unfortunately, like so many of my other serendipitous moments, revelation came late and I came across a blundering idiot. But let us not dwell on that, but rather upon that delayed light bulb. I believe the answer I was looking for at the time was “Touch”. I can sense some of you cringed away from me when I said that- colorful notions perhaps intruding that Victorian attic of your soul? Regardless, amongst the many things that I did as a child but significantly reduced in frequency once attaining adulthood was touching. I was myopic at an early age, developed selective hearing later on, and was tongue tied for the most part. The one faculty of sense that remained intact throughout my formative years was my sense of touch. As a child, I liked to feel things, to explore and familiarize myself with the contours of whatever object that is within reach. I love how I can tickle my fingers with the corners of my blanket; it was a source of security, entertainment and comfort to feel the blanket there at my fingertips. I enjoyed caressing the ivories, the music I could make, the emotions I could emulate simply by varying pressure on different keys – its magical.
For a long time, reaching out and touching formed the basis of my existence- it was primitive but informative. The most important thing that touch offered me was closeness to another human being. In particular, it allowed me to relish in the joy of holding my mother’s hand (insert Oedipus reference here). Oh, I became familiar with those hands. Those hands could deliver swift justice when the need arise; and believe me, the imprint of those hands smart for a while. Yet, it was the touch of those hands that guided me, supported me in my hour of need.
Touch allowed me to embrace love- love that grows ever elusive as I grew older. I can not explain in words the wonderfulness that comes with being able to hug someone, to let your guard and feel secure simply because someone is holding you. At that singular moment when you are locked in an embrace, you are both vulnerable and not. It is awe-inspiring. It is amazing what a gentle nudge in the right direction can do. It is equally amazing how holding someone’s hand brings you closer to God. Our sense of touch is God’s gift to bring us closer to life and all the abstract virtues that were once seemingly incorporeal. Touch allows us to be intimate with someone, it opens us to new horizons simply because we connect. The mere proximity, that slight tingle when you are standing close enough to someone whom you can share a touch with is in fact gateway to something divine.
Sadly, in our society, we seem to frown upon touching. Proper decorum demands that we wean ourselves of being overly touchy feely. In particular, a gentleman should always ensure that his hands are in the proper place. A firm handshake, a slight wave shall suffice for us grown adults. We are our own entity, we each have personal space, and any attempt to reach out can be viewed as a hostile invasion. We cringed; we backed away until slowly we collapse in our own little world void of human touch. Touch slowly becomes stigmatized, associated with the wrong connotations. Ever noticed how words like caress sounds close to harass and molest, when in reality caress should only be associated with emotions of care and love. As I grew older, the concept of “look but don’t touch” became so ingrained that I find myself no longer capable of touch. I find myself distancing myself, separating myself so that I am untouchable… and that speaks of deeper issues. When we fail to reach out, when we fail to allow ourselves to be vulnerable, to come in direct contact with another being, then we shut ourselves from a healthy system of support and care that would otherwise serve to push us further in our journey. Perhaps that is why I lie sleepless night after night, because my heart has become cold and foreign to the warmth that only holding hands can offer. Perhaps that is why I hesitate because I have taught myself to hold back.
So yes, touch was something I used to do a whole lot as a child until I was reprimand to the point where I refrained from doing much as an adult.
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