Touch is a human sense

We use and experience the term "touch" in different ways. One scientific definition refers to our physical, biological, and chemical system that creates the sensation that we interpret with our brains.

"This system is responsible for all the sensations we feel - cold, hot, smooth, rough, pressure, tickle, itch, pain, vibrations, and more. Within the somatosensory system, there are four main types of receptors: mechanoreceptors, thermoreceptors, pain receptors, and proprioceptors." 

http://www.hometrainingtools.com/a/skin-touch

However, touching may also be something that we feel in the heart. We might say that yet all feeling is indeed accomplished in the brain.

All humans are brainiacs in the sense that our minds perform like computers. After all, computers are a human invention. Now, humans have created software programs which perform as they do. We have done that just as we invented hammers, for instance. We first created nails and then we invented a tool for pounding.

Someone invented paint. Someone else invented brushes. The next thing you know artists combined them to produce impressions of life as they felt it.

People like sharing their feelings. They enjoy being touched by ideas and things that they see. One cannot always "touch" art because, you know, there is a 12-inch rule in museums that keep you away from it.

That is why "touching," a feeling in the heart and head was invented to experience the work of an artist no matter how it was created.

Hearts as art

Nothing there to see

Nothing there to see

Looking out the window into the woods
above the Sycamore Creek,
and what I saw was a collage of green.

In mid-summer, leaves are what we see
accompanied by dry heat.

Looking again into the wooded treeline
above the bare creek bed,
and what I saw was something orange.

With morning blurry eyes and no glasses to assist,
there appeared to be a robin or an oriole,
but instead, it was just an orange leaf signaling a change.

By James George (c) 2106 All Rights Reserved

Photo by James George

Teahouse of gold, poem

Teahouse of gold

In such a place, an old man sits

sipping tea from a clay cup contemplating,

that his days are numbered.

His room is on the third floor from the ground,

and the climb up the stairs exacerbates his energy.

The warmth from the sunshine adds relief to his arthritic bones.

In such a place, an old man rests

wondering how many more cups of life

there remains here.

His final trip will be down the stairs, 

and out the green door to an awaiting cart.

On the slope, he will slip away from his final sip.

James A George (c) 2016 All Rights Reserved

Photo by Оксана Криничная