…is hugs, deep hugs.
My parents used to call it “skin food.” They firmly believed that hugs and affection were essential to our growth into healthy little people. Finge, now too cool for everything I do ducks out of the hugs I insist on giving. That’s his problem. I’m gonna hug my kid every day he’s in my company. BB still loves her hug time. In fact, every morning, we have a couple of minutes where she still sits (hangs off) my lap and we talk about our plans for the day. That’s the good stuff.
There’s silent honesty in hugs. One of the favorite parts of my trip home is the first hugs I get from my father and stepmother when I walk through the door. They contain so much love. My friends and I hug tight. None of that side arm hugging jazz. We are a hug hard or keep it to yourself crew; this holds true for my new friends as well. The fact that it’s always just been understood is amazing. It’s almost as though love attracts love.
If you want to discuss intimacy, you don’t know anything about life until you’ve lain in silence locked in an embrace. Just thinking about hands moving in sweeping motions from shoulder blades to the small of the back and back again makes me shudder. It’s subtly defiant against anything that would challenge your union.
I can’t even explain why I enjoy hugging so much. Maybe it’s the sense of being both vulnerable and the protector. Maybe it’s feeling the rhythm of another heart to remind you of a world totally independent of your own. Whatever it is, I can’t get enough of them.