Tactile

Often folks will assume that because I am a writer, because I teach writing, I conduct my life from an ivory tower and prefer it that way. Sometimes, I find this grating. Sometimes, it hurts me. Sometimes, it hurts me because these people have been hurt themselves.

I live a life in my mind, but it is inseparable from my body. I write because I want to touch the world. Not metaphorically. Literally. I literally want to touch the world. I want to reach out with my two-week-old manicure and run my fingertips over every single thing.

"I touched all the plants at the Botanical Gardens," she writes, "until my companion asked me how I knew which ones were poisonous."

"That was one of the first things he said to me," she tells me. "'I'm a tactile person.'" I've not yet met him, but I imagine I can smooth my thumb along the ridges of her love for him.

He instant messages me, "I'm a hands-on person."

I could go on--on with quotes, on with links, on with people in my life who love to touch. Who love people who love to touch.

"I knew I didn't want to be locked in a room with books for four years," he says. "I wanted to be out in the world, making things." And I can hear the hesitation in his voice as he realizes he's saying this to a writer. If he'd said it in person, I'd have grabbed his hand, entwined my fingers with his, kissed each one. Murmured that I know what school does to those who love their own hands too much.

The best teachers show you how to use your hands to get what's on the page into your brain. And to use your mind to turn what's at your fingertips into words. Just so you know you can. Even if you choose not to.

The best teachers know that we don't yet teach each person's heart's content. Those of us who'd already loved books just happened to have gotten lucky.