It takes me a few seconds to scan the people gathered on the beach and to translate knackered into American English. And when I see Faith standing on a milk crate on the boardwalk a few feet from the sand, both make sense. “Yes, that’s Faith. And she does look tired.” The kids like Faith. They’ve all met her in passing and think she’s nice and funny.
She’s holding a sign that reads Free Hugs. Everything about her looks exhausted, from her mildly slouched posture, to her half-lidded eyes, to the sallowness of the skin on her face, but her smile shines true and pure through the fog. It’s the beacon that lures people in. As I stand here with my children, we watch person after person approach her. And each time she steps off her milk crate, puts her poster board sign on the sand, and she hugs them. Sometimes the recipient is enthusiastic. Sometimes the recipient is shy and guarded. Sometimes the hugs are quick and sometimes they linger on for five to ten seconds. That doesn’t sound like a long time, but when you’re trading physical contact with a complete stranger, five to ten seconds is an eternity. My emotions sway from complete and utter awe, to cringe-worthy apprehension, to cautious alarm for her safety within the span of the few minutes we look on. But, what’s most astounding to me is that no matter what Faith receives from the huggee, she as the hugger consistently delivers a sound, loving, strong, heartfelt embrace. She’s consciously transmitting kindness to each person through touch. It’s the most disturbingly human thing I’ve seen in a very long time.
I wish I could say it was the most beautifully human thing I’ve seen in a very long time, but my knee-jerk reaction to the display is fear. Because what I’m seeing, when it’s distilled down to its most basic element…is love.
And love equals fear to me.
And divorce.
Damn.
Told you I was bitter.
Kira is antsy as hell to run to Faith for a hug. She’s a hugger herself and, even at five, she knows she’s discovered one of her own. “Daddy, can I give Faith a hug?”
My mouth is saying, “No,” while my head is nodding yes.
I don’t even realize the contradictory denial and permission I’ve just given until she wrinkles up her forehead in confusion and asks again, “Can I give Faith a hug?”
This time, I don’t let my mouth answer and my head nods.
She runs across the sand as her brothers and I wait a few dozen feet away. Kira stands in line behind an elderly woman and a twenty-something guy. When it’s Kira’s turn, Faith recognizes her immediately and drops to her knees before bundling Kira into an embrace. Kira blooms into the hug. She nuzzles her head into Faith’s shoulder and she wiggles slightly with every second or two that passes. The wiggles are the excitement she can’t contain bursting to the surface and breaking free. But after ten seconds she settles into a still, contented, gentle squeeze. It’s the hug she gives me every night. It’s the hug that says I trust you, I feel safe around you, and I love you. It melts my heart to be on the receiving end, but to watch her give it to someone she barely knows is startling. Kids are excellent judges of character. Instincts are sharp before the cynicism of time decays them to the point they’re null and void, useless to most adults. Or maybe we’re just good at ignoring them the older we get.
When Kira returns to us post-hug, she’s beaming like her heart is burning so bright it’s lighting her up from the inside out. I silently thank Faith for giving my daughter this moment. This experience that reaffirmed to her how magical kindness feels when it fills up your being.
Kira wants us to do it too. She tells us we should all give Faith a hug. Kai, Rory, and I decline, a united front of manliness. Though for a split second I wish my boys would go get a hug and feel what their sister was gifted. Their mother has been gone for a month now, and she was never a hugger. Then the split second wish evaporates as I watch my boys continue our walk back to apartment three.
And my bitterness feels like sadness.
It hurt like hell and we named him Kai
past
I never realized how much I craved Seamus’s full attention until it was gone. It’s not that he smothers me with it, but he’s always present. Always adoring and takes his end of our relationship and marriage seriously. He nurtures it: with thoughtful comments, encouragement, praise, compliments, open conversation, support, touch, sex, kindness, and care. And I feel the love in each of them. Not over-the-top, put on love, but genuine it’s-who-I-am-in-my bones love. He doesn’t have to try; it’s effortless.
I greedily take everything he gives me; it feeds my insatiable ego, and I piecemeal it in return. Just enough to keep him on the hook.
But when the baby was born I felt the tide turn, an instantaneous shift in attention. I don’t want to share his attention. It’s mine.