Language and Gestures

Did I tell yous about the goat I met last month? I said hello to him and he pushed his hefty body against my thigh and poked my bum - not hard, but with intention - with one of his horns. I assumed this meant he didn't want me in his space, so I moved away, only to be told by a human who knows him well that that's his way of letting you know that he wants you to rub his back and is showing you where. I never stop learning that assumptions are to be avoided and that the non-verbal communication of animals is utterly fascinating and much more direct than human language. If only we could understand each other in the way this goat can communicate that he wants contact.

Interestingly, upon learning the goat's intentions I backtracked and tried to approach him, but he'd already moved on to the other humans. He did not persist in demanding attention or touch from me - behaviour many humans could learn from. The brief encounter has stayed with me, as has contact with quite a few dogs over the same time period who similarly would plonk themselves on or near you and happily let you pet them.  

I wonder if those connections are indicative of the challenges I've had with language over the past few years. There is something more intuitive about the kinds of affectionate touch we engage in with animals that have become a source of anxiety between humans as we increasingly realise and act upon the need for clear consent as gestures through touch are all too often exertions of power and control instead of conduits of meaningful connection in the moment. More of us have also 'found our voices' - myself included with the podcast, which is no mean feat for someone who is content to sit quietly and who possesses a small, quiet voice for which no microphone on earth is calibrated to assist. 

It may also be relevant that I prefer to write with pen and paper, even with my scrappy, barely legible handwriting, than I do typing on a computer. There is less noise and fewer distractions. The words flow, again, intuitively. My holding-things hand and my creative/thinking hand each do what they do best instead of each just about doing okay at the same simultaneous action. The light scrapes of the pen on the notepaper are a more bearable and less distracting sonic by-product than the typing, which no matter how softly it is done is still annoyingly audible. 

Perhaps that's part of it too: language in whatever form it takes is noise, even if you're reading text in your head. Holding a hand, rubbing a shoulder, giving a hug can all be performed in relative silence and help us feel better and connected and loved. But we're on Corona-time and it isn't safe to practise these intuitive, needed gestures in most instances. I am lucky to isolate with a loving partner, but not knowing when I can hug my mum and sister or my closest friends again, or comfort someone who needs it in a way more meaningful than pestering them with distanced 'how are you?'s punctuated with buck eejitry is causing a deep, bodily ache. And here I can identify a childhood full of hugs and kisses in which I was rarely told verbally that I was loved, but through affectionate gestures and actions felt loved every day. 

Now the act of love is to stay away, to refrain from touch no matter how tempting and necessary it feels. Resisting this compulsion is another strain to carry in already con/strained circumstances. But I must remember that goat. I must avoid assuming the negative - or anything, for that matter - and try harder to take things as they come. If and when Corona-time ends, I hope we emerge as better communicators than when we went in. 

Yorkshire Dales, taken March 2016

 

 

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