I am out for a walk. Its about 12 below. My boots crunch and slide through the churned up snow that’s laying on the unplowed side street. I look up and see the lifeless shell of the old Drum hospital to my left.

I think of the day that I walked into a room in Summerland to watch my Father die. He said ” hello Peter ” and then lapsed into a comatose state. We sat at his bedside for 8 days as he died.

My Mother and I talked and cried or lapsed into silence for many minutes. We sat like this at his bedside for those interminable days. My brother and sister arrived at various points and we brought in extra chairs to accommodate them.

Through all that time the one constant was touch. When we were there we all at some point or another were touching parts of his body. He didn’t acknowledge it or seem to be aware of it.

What was in that touch I ask myself ? Was I finally after all these years trying to connect with a man I really knew little about ? Was there fear that he was dying, and that fear a reminder of my own mortality ? Was there the thought that I could bring some level of hope to his journey and transmit that he was not alone ? Was there obligation ? Did my touch also contain condemnation for all that I perceived that he had or had not given   me ?

I think of other areas in my life where I touch others. 12 step meetings, work and generally. Do I hug people to support, possess, restrain them or connect ? Do I do it to affirm that I am alive. Sometimes I feel insubstantial and need the comfort of knowing that I am real. I also touch to communicate things to you. I am here. I support you. I am aroused by you.

I touch my self also. I do it in exploratory, loving, hopeful and abusive of ways. Would I treat my best friend the way that I abuse my own body ? I don’t know, there are times that my perceived need for control and fear make that a possibility. Part of the touch that I do is to feed myself, which can be very nurturing or abusive as well.

I am watching a snow squall through the window and wondering how the flakes will feel on my face when I step out into it. When I walk I often stop to put my arms around a tree and feel its rough texture against my cheek. What can its touch tell me ? What can your touch say to me ? The possibility’s are endless. I sit here with my head in my hands, overwhelmed by the physical, emotional, financial, an spiritual effects of touch.

Don’t stop though. If we keep doing it we are bound to find some of the answers and the healthy touch feels good to me. I hope you also feel that.