When Little Girls Hold Hands

Do you remember? Reaching out to grab her hand. Not being afraid of what anyone else thought. Not even being aware that anyone else existed. Just you and her. On an adventure. Planning an escape. Sneaking upstairs to eat chocolate and swap secrets. We held hands out of instinct. We looked both ways and crossed the street together. We held hands for comfort. We held hands out of love. We held sticky, played with, cried on hands with no shame or fear or insecurity. We were little girls. And we still knew how to love each other without hesitation. We reached out and grabbed the others hand because there was so much we wanted to share. The excitement. The not-knowing. The joy. The smiles. We knew these things were good, but they were better shared.

We weren't self-conscious yet. Wondering if we might look silly. Weak. Weird. Dependent. Wondering if the other hand was better than ours? Worse than ours? Prettier. Skinnier. Smarter. Or from a bigger house. We didn't know how to compare, measure, sum up or judge. We didn't even know to think of the other hands around us. Were we being exclusive? Should we try and make the rounds? Holding every little girl's hands? We did not yet operate out of guilt or obligation or even political correctness. We didn't see skin color or political parties or labels. We only knew the nudging of our hearts.

It felt best to reach out and grab her hand. Because life was way too good to walk alone.

And sometimes we broke free of each others hands for a moment. Because side by side, we felt brave.

Perhaps it was all those sticky finger embraces that gave us so much courage to break free and lead the way for a minute. Knowing she was by our side. Not yet condemning, bossy, mean or passive aggressive. Just our friend. Our cheerleader. Our confidant. Our person. The one we were unafraid to hold hands with on the play ground. We gave each other courage. Not psychotherapy or prayers. We didn't know how to do those yet. All we knew was our hands. We knew how to be present.  How to reach out to the other person in the most basic way.

Here's my hand. Take it. Wrap your fingers around mine. We will do this together.

We would scoot our chairs close. No sense of personal space. We, who shared beds and bathrooms and bathing suits and boys. We gave each other the best gifts we had. Ourselves. Long before we knew how to be guarded, we knew how to be girlfriends. We giggled, cried, dreamed impossible dreams, and then grabbed each others sticky fingers and ran off to explore.

And I watch her now. My little girl who holds the hands of others as if they were precious treasures. And I wonder-

When did I forget how to hold another girl's hand? And how do I get back there?

Back to the place where I just reach out and grab and hold- and give myself to another girl without fear or shame or expectations or guilt. Back to the place where joy ran free and I was compelled to share wonder and delight and mystery with the closest girl in sight. Back to that moment, when little girls hold hands, and the whole world is made simple and beautiful by the innocent touch of the unafraid. That's where I am trying to get back to. Life is good. But it's better shared.