Touch, essence of life, from which all other senses spring, is a casualty of formality. Loveâ€™s darling, touch loses herself in her offspring, loses the bucket to the well of loveâ€™s air, waiting for breath, quietly talking as sâ€™he waits to be breathed, quivering, alive.
We don’t touch each other enough. It gets lost in the shuffling dance of politeness and meaning. We don’t want to give the wrong impression, we don’t want to open ourselves to pain, or rejection. We fear germs. Too much intimacy weakens us. We prefer to keep things under control, with words and their polite walls.
Blogging takes touch away completely, starving already emaciated yearning even further. What I would give to touch the hand of some of the friends I have made here. Would it happen? Could it happen? Perhaps we can never meet, for that would give away all our secrets.
Touch is non-verbal. I’ve made a habit to hug all my friends whenever I part from them. Sometimes it feels awkward, since people aren’t accustomed to hugging much in this country. (Men in particular stick their butts out, so as not to touch crotches.) But I believe strongly in my hugging habit, my version of formal, ritual touch, since there is little other. I believe it can pass messages otherwise unspoken, or even un-thought. I believe it can heal.