It's a complex thing, human touch. Whether physical contact with another human being is acceptable depends so much on each moment of contact. It's a delicate dance, and the music includes the people present and the time of day and the place and the emotions of the moment and one hundred other factors. Let us try to parse a few of the details.
Everyone has their own sphere of personal space. Some spheres are small; others are gigantic. The diameter of the sphere varies depending on who is nearby -- it tends to expand when strangers are adjacent, and can contract or even momentarily dissolve when familiars are present.
Sometimes even familiars can invade one's personal space, though. That's an especially tricky situation, since emotional requirements also come into play. Whose needs come first?
Herself remembers when the Offspring were small and enjoyed (even needed) a great deal of physical contact. Herself carried them, nursed them, rocked them. She held their hands when crossing the street and sat them on her lap for story time. She kissed them goodnight. It was all good. Still, at the end of some days, she felt all "touched out" -- she needed a respite from the constant physical contact. It's bittersweet for her to remember those times now that the Offspring are all nearly adults and eschew parental hugs in favor of those from their peers. In deference, Herself abstains from touching them except briefly in passing or in their times of emotional distress; her wish to hug the Offspring should never supersede their wishes.
Herself also thinks about a close female friend who, for various knotty emotional reasons, is uncomfortable with physical contact with her mother. The friend is thoroughly conflicted -- how does she define her duties towards her mother and bring them into synchronicity with her own feelings and needs, particularly in view of her mother's openly expressed (and sometimes passive-aggressively stated) desires to receive hugs and kisses? She must either sacrifice her own needs for the sake of meeting the wishes of her mother, or take a stand against physical contact even though that might hurt her mother's feelings and result in additional emotionally-painful conversations. Her friend can't win. Herself wishes she could help somehow. She imagines being with her friend to provide a follow-up hug of reassurance; she thinks a positive touch could erase the negative contact somehow. Perhaps someday.
Even when touch is normally comfortable between two people, there arise situations that require a further assessment: for example, when one individual is in physical discomfort, such as with an illness or an injury, others must tread even more carefully than they would normally. Some people derive comfort from touch; others find any further physical sensation to be intolerable. What to do?
Herself thinks about the kidney stone bonanza of last year. It was a humbling, terrifying deconstruction of the Superego, a shocking retreat into Id. Through it all, the only molecules of consolation she could find lay in the hands of those around her. Even the smallest of touches -- a pat on the arm by the nurse who placed the IV, Beloved Husband's hand holding hers, the technician gently assisting with her placement into the CAT scan machine -- gave her a focus, a grain of positive physical sensation within the ocean of the pain. She could not think clearly enough to ask for the physical contact, and yet it was magically provided. It helped. She is grateful.
When her loved ones are suffering, Herself's first instinct is to reach out her hands to them. Sometimes she is hesitant, though, not knowing whether they are in a state where they would prefer to withdraw from physical touch, or whether they would somehow benefit from some physical contact. She does not want to cross into their personal spheres in an unwelcome manner. Yet she wants to help. And thus, the delicate dance of human touch continues.
When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares. ― Henri J.M. Nouwen, Out of Solitude: Three Meditations on the Christian Life
Everyone has their own sphere of personal space. Some spheres are small; others are gigantic. The diameter of the sphere varies depending on who is nearby -- it tends to expand when strangers are adjacent, and can contract or even momentarily dissolve when familiars are present.
Sometimes even familiars can invade one's personal space, though. That's an especially tricky situation, since emotional requirements also come into play. Whose needs come first?
Herself remembers when the Offspring were small and enjoyed (even needed) a great deal of physical contact. Herself carried them, nursed them, rocked them. She held their hands when crossing the street and sat them on her lap for story time. She kissed them goodnight. It was all good. Still, at the end of some days, she felt all "touched out" -- she needed a respite from the constant physical contact. It's bittersweet for her to remember those times now that the Offspring are all nearly adults and eschew parental hugs in favor of those from their peers. In deference, Herself abstains from touching them except briefly in passing or in their times of emotional distress; her wish to hug the Offspring should never supersede their wishes.
Herself also thinks about a close female friend who, for various knotty emotional reasons, is uncomfortable with physical contact with her mother. The friend is thoroughly conflicted -- how does she define her duties towards her mother and bring them into synchronicity with her own feelings and needs, particularly in view of her mother's openly expressed (and sometimes passive-aggressively stated) desires to receive hugs and kisses? She must either sacrifice her own needs for the sake of meeting the wishes of her mother, or take a stand against physical contact even though that might hurt her mother's feelings and result in additional emotionally-painful conversations. Her friend can't win. Herself wishes she could help somehow. She imagines being with her friend to provide a follow-up hug of reassurance; she thinks a positive touch could erase the negative contact somehow. Perhaps someday.
Even when touch is normally comfortable between two people, there arise situations that require a further assessment: for example, when one individual is in physical discomfort, such as with an illness or an injury, others must tread even more carefully than they would normally. Some people derive comfort from touch; others find any further physical sensation to be intolerable. What to do?
Herself thinks about the kidney stone bonanza of last year. It was a humbling, terrifying deconstruction of the Superego, a shocking retreat into Id. Through it all, the only molecules of consolation she could find lay in the hands of those around her. Even the smallest of touches -- a pat on the arm by the nurse who placed the IV, Beloved Husband's hand holding hers, the technician gently assisting with her placement into the CAT scan machine -- gave her a focus, a grain of positive physical sensation within the ocean of the pain. She could not think clearly enough to ask for the physical contact, and yet it was magically provided. It helped. She is grateful.
When her loved ones are suffering, Herself's first instinct is to reach out her hands to them. Sometimes she is hesitant, though, not knowing whether they are in a state where they would prefer to withdraw from physical touch, or whether they would somehow benefit from some physical contact. She does not want to cross into their personal spheres in an unwelcome manner. Yet she wants to help. And thus, the delicate dance of human touch continues.
When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares. ― Henri J.M. Nouwen, Out of Solitude: Three Meditations on the Christian Life
NuSTAR Hand of God Nebula, found at
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