I nearly missed them as I cruised down one of the mural clad side streets in Tulum. But the second I saw their intertwined fingers my heart felt a longing akin to homesickness, a deep desire to connect. I took my hand from the bike’s handlebar and envisioned my own mother’s hand in mine. Had it been all those years since I’d held it? How long since I’d extended my hand to a child? Or reached for a lover’s? When did I become so separate, so busy, so independent that I couldn’t even remember?
Sure, I’d been “holding my own” for more than awhile. Yet in that moment I longed to reach with certainty for the hand of another. I exhaled, brushed it off and turned to see the mother and daughter, holding hands so easily, so comfortably, talking, as if that physical connection were the most normal thing in the world. And as if it would last forever.
I slipped the lock through the wheel and around a pole and decided, yes. It would last forever. Mine had. I rubbed one hand over the other to feel the sensation: skin on skin, palm to palm, genuine loving touch. Before I turned to enter the bank, I closed my eyes and imagined my mother’s hand in mine. I felt the connection. Yes, I’d always have it. My heart quieted, the longing subsided and my shoulders softened as I felt the mother and daughter, even the son who might pull his hand from mine, too grown up. Yet still, we’re connected.
Always. And more so once we connect to the self.
If you’ve forgotten, if you’ve been “holding your own” for way too long, think about taking a break. Even an hour to get still and reconnect to you and the connection we have to each other. Yoga helps. It’s not the only way but it is a way that’s worked for humanity for thousands of years. And it’s a certain way to come back to you and your connection with the things you love.