Each morning I set aside the curtain of a particular window that offers the best view. This happening has become so rote that I barely notice the effort. Today was no exception as I walked past the window to my wardrobe. It took me a moment for my mind to catch up to what my eyes had seen. Looking at my clothes hanging by color, I lingered upon the greens before realizing what I was thinking. I returned to the window.
There was something different. The heatwave had made the once lush and bold greenery outside my window now appear delicate and thirsty. I had forgotten there were so many branches upon each tree. Now in the drought, it was clear that the intertwining of the leaves is what made this small coupling of trees a mighty fortress.
I stood with a cup of coffee in hand but felt increasingly thirsty as I watched the branches try to reach one another with a little help from the wind. Finally, they crossed the bridge of scorching rays and the leaves from two trees touched — what a view.
I returned to my wardrobe with my heart beating a little faster. Putting my fingertips upon the fabrics dyed in green, a longing washed over me as I felt the different textures of satin, Tencel, and cotton. I lingered in the thought of the leaves stretching to reach one another like old friends shaking hands or new lovers leaning in for their first kiss.
Touch: an unspoken word that carries the weight of a novel. And just like words, touch or the lack of can cause pain as well as bring relief and comfort. Expressed with the right person, touch is a language of its own, and if combined with a keen mental connection, it can be transcendent, passionate, healing, sensual, and soulful. And yet, this primal need has been debased in a society strung out on greed and superficial connections. Many confuse lust with love, physical attention with acceptance, and altered and airbrushed bodies with the image of what it means to be desirable.
Not everyone grew up in an affectionate home. Children born into families of abuse or arms-reach attention either end up mirroring their “normal” or establish a new normal of cultivating safe touch in their adult relationships. Similarly, those hurt by inappropriate contact often struggle with reconciling how something that is supposed to be so tender and welcoming can also be life-altering and brutal. These people often spend years, if not longer, avoiding touch as they have been harmed by the very thing the world romanticizes.
Many adult singles in the world are alone but not lonesome. Some are alone because the mate they thought they would have for a lifetime is no longer in their life. Others are single by choice. This does not mean their need for physical touch is less important than those with significant others. What is important is to remain authentically connected with people. Regardless of our relationship status, there are proper ways to physically connect (hug family and friends, get a haircut or a massage, take a dance class, and so on).
Because of health issues, there are also those who cannot express themselves physically as they once did or wish they could. It is important for these individuals to recognize that if we genuinely believe touch is a language of its own, we can become creative in writing our sentences. There are a million ways to write a love story, but there are a million more ways to make love.
When I was in high school, I was running late to meet the bus for an away varsity soccer game. I was dressed in uniform and sprinted from my car to a convenience store to quickly pick out a Mother’s Day card for my mom who would be at my game. I told myself I couldn’t show up and watch my mom cheer me on from the sidelines on her special day without giving her a card.
I darted into the store and to the card aisle with haste and a one-track mind. Staring at one end of the display, I continued to make my way down the line when I accidentally bumped into an older woman looking at sympathy cards. Her presence startled me. I had not seen her. Embarrassed, I apologized profusely. Her reply forever branded itself into the very fiber of my being.
“That’s okay, dear,” she said. “That’s the first time I’ve been touched in months.”
Without hesitation, I took my attention off my agenda and reached across the bridge of scorching loneliness and hugged her. That one hug meant more to me than any sentiment printed on all the cards combined.
I returned to my car with my heart beating a little faster. Putting the key into the ignition, a longing washed over me as I felt the stranger’s loneliness linger upon me like perfume. I cannot remember what Mother’s Day card I picked out that day, but I do know that when I saw my mom, I hugged her and told her I loved her.
As we continue to live our lives, may we fill the pages of our memory books with stories of love in all languages. And may we bridge the gap of expression and need, reaching the people God puts before us today with the help of Christ and a tender touch.
Tiffany Kaye Chartier
SGLY, dear reader.
(Smile, God Loves You.)
Tiffany Kaye Chartier, Author 