I’m starting to understand why I’m interested in the gesture language of my hands: because that is the bodily-space where I noticed for the first time my Cocoliche’s (my dad) most vulnerable side: his anxiety (and how he copes with it, just like me). This is a part of my affective heritage.
I’ve long-lived with an injured arm, one injured by someone who I love and still do (although we’re healthfully changing). Now that I’m reading about the importance of somatic sense, touch and the nuclear role of the hand in the practice of touch, I’m wondering about the paradox of it having some receptors, like nociceptors, that feel pain. So, I’m wondering, if my hand could express what she felt or thought of when being violated, what would she have to say? Or how does the rest of my body still live within that silenced expression? Is it still silenced? What aspects of my nowadays touch comes from a place of violence or fear, or how has it shaped towards faith and safeness? Is it possible, then, to change our language of love through touch? Change it from its institutional hierarchy to search for a more heart-opened, difference-tolerant, way of witnessing and listening to each other, to just be (together)?
Leave a Reply