On tenderness

What a beautiful word, I was thinking this morning: tenderness. And what a beautiful space it occupies. You can’t be tender without being attentive, slowing down, thinking about the other person; where they ‘are’ and what they need. 

Tender implies something physical and loving. The way a mother (in my case at least) pushes the hair away from her child’s eyes. The way a lover might move his partner’s hair to behind her ear. A romantic cliché that makes my tummy flip, nonetheless. You can’t rush in to stroke someone’s cheek at 100 miles per hour. 

The tender touch of a lover is something I miss. I’ve been shocked, since my divorce, at how tender and loving touch can feel even when administrated by someone who claims not to have an emotional connection with you. It’s been a while since I’ve borne witness to touch that was genuinely loving, or not. 

We can be tender in our verbal exchanges, too. Seek to understand the other. Listen. Give words of comfort or reassurance, delivered in a gentle voice. How often am I rushed, brusque, impatient? How often do I give what I yearn for myself?

I remember sitting and talking to my ex mother-in-law for hours. Her Greek was broken and she was not an educated woman but an actress incarnate, and the force of her personality pushed through the spaces that words could not and shared the essence of what she wanted to say.  

She told me that no-one else had sat and listened to her. Heard her stories, without interruption. I’m not sure if that’s true but I held her hand. Wanted to be close to her. Wanted her to know that I loved her and cared about her. She is very poorly, in Albania. I hope I will see her again before she passes away. I recorded some of her stories and songs; images of her rolling filo sheets for baklava, or wielding the wooden broom she kept behind the kitchen door, for both sweeping and dramatic effect. My boys will have these memories.

I’ve been doing this advent yoga thing each morning. Making a herbal tea from my advent tea calendar, lighting a candle and then doing sun salutations. I started with one and I’m adding an extra each day. Dinner may be late on Christmas Day. It takes a while and I lose count easily. 

After my exertions this morning I sat quietly, cross-legged on my mat. I invited my Phoenix onto my lap. Closed my eyes and felt her brimming warmth kindle my spirit. As the minutes passed, she softened. The burning expectancy that so often makes her wings quiver started to calm. 

As she settled, I listened to her silence. Heard her need for quiet, for tenderness, to be held. And, very gently, I stroked her feathers, careful not to ruffle them. Gently traced along the crest on the top of her head with my finger. Watched a tear that slid down my cheek and onto hers steam and sizzle, then disappear.