Monday, August 23, 2010

touch.

So often today touch is misconstrued, abused, or ignored entirely. These past couple weeks, when out with my girl friends, I so desired to walk as they would in a Jane Austen novel, arm in arm, or arms around each others' waists. But, alas, the world doesn't allow for that anymore. Assumptions are made and they have instantly robbed us of the comfort and propriety of that expression of affection. Last night I was telling my beautiful six year old cousin, Camila, a story. We were laying on the carpet cuddling and laughing in glee, our faces about three inches apart. As I stared into her luminous brown eyes, and she stared in mine, I realized that I never get that close to anyone...I always feel too exposed, too vulnerable, as if they could see every blemish, or they'd somehow misunderstand what my eyes tell them. As I went on about an endangered patch of singing flowers, and artists who draw magical worlds with their fingers in the sky, she tenderly played with my eyelashes, twirled my hair around her fingers and tucked it gently behind my ears, kissed my cheeks and squeezed them at the dimples when I laughed, and brushed her nose against mine in a sweet eskimo kiss. She was innocently and joyfully playing with the most personable aspect of my physical self...which made me feel incandescently adored. I stared at her unabashed and trusted she would have an unbiased opinion of my beauty. It reminded me just how much I love and long for closeness and touch, how much I love my precious Camila, and how much I love the pure affection of children in general.