I spent a lot of time in doctor offices this past year. As a result I had a lot of innocent and probing hands on me--checking my pulse, sliding a stethoscope across my back, feeling my throat. Always I was struck with a feeling of comfort. There is something about a touch from a stranger (I guess I should add the right kind of stranger) that feels good. Like when someone unknown to you bumps into you on the street and they pat your shoulder and say sorry. It feels like something akin to recognition. This got me thinking how all our lives we seem to seek this recognition (whether it comes from our work or friends or family). We all just want to be wanted. Even as kids we sought this kind of comfort--wanting to be picked first in a game of red rover, wanting the adults in our life to be proud. We are always wanting to be known in some way. I wonder if there is a way to quench that thirst ourselves. Perhaps the answer for this too is confidence. Anyway, here is a poem I wrote that stems from this notion:
Wanted
A cold chair awakens the skin of my back
not unlike those porch lights
that will surprise the dark at 4 a.m.
I can’t see but I can hear cars on the freeway –
all that chance in those bobbing heads.
All that coming and going.
The wind draws mouths on bushes,
a song for leaving. At our root –
the single wish to be understood and
still wanted. Such reassurance blooms
in a warm gesture, a touch from a stranger,
as if we’ve been picked.
Follow your map back to childhood.
Nothing has changed though everything
changes. This big world and each of us.
It is not that our light has altered
but that our words have grown more
complicated. We are all travelers here,
seeking comfort. Go in now.
Want this.
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