Touching the Unseen

In our everyday lives, what do we really see? Or what do we truly look at? What do we hear, and how do these senses combine to shape our world? We listen to beautiful music, watch musicians pour their souls into every note, and hear the calming sounds of rivers, birds singing, the rush of water, the flutter of colorful wings. These experiences stir something deep inside us, and we try to put that feeling into words.

What do we touch? What textures do our hands brush against? Where do we place our feet? Who do we pull into our embrace, and what do these moments feel like? We stroke the soft cheeks of children, the fur of playful puppies, and we meet someone’s gaze and feel a connection. Now, imagine someone who doesn’t see or hear and, then doesn’t speak. His only connection to the world around him is through his hands. He lost his sight as a child and has no clear image of the objects and scenes around him, only a few faded memories of his parents’ faces.

For years, he has been weaving baskets, his fingers knowing every inch of the wood by heart. That’s all he has ever felt wood and the hands of people who sometimes communicate by tapping into his palms, the language of the deaf. Occasionally, he receives a rare hug. He is always on the move, always traveling. What does he see on these journeys?

He says, “I have no choice but to trust strangers all the time.” The documentary *Journey*, directed by Christopher Tuckfield(1993), tells the story of a 74-year-old man who has been blind, deaf, and mute for sixty years. For fifty-five of those years, he’s been weaving baskets he’s never seen. Yet, he makes a living by selling them, and every few years, with the money he’s saved, he travels to distant places. *Journey* follows his trip to Japan, where he encounters others like him.

This film isn’t asking for pity. It quietly tells the story of his life, painting a picture of how he feels and interacts with the world around him. He often says, “I don’t know what this or that looks like,” but he reaches out, takes people’s hands, and speaks in his own silent way. Sometimes, a gentle smile crosses his face—a smile he’s never seen reflected back at him in a mirror.

I’m telling you this story because sometimes, we need to close our eyes and feel our world. Touch the rough bark of a tree, the thick leaves of plants, the soft fur of a puppy, the cool, flowing water of a stream. Close your eyes and focus on the sensations—the chill, the warmth, the roughness, the softness. Run your hands over someone’s face, hold their hands, let your feet sink into the cold water of a spring. I’ve been thinking that seeing, hearing, and even speaking are all choices. We often overlook beauty or fail to hear the whispers of nature, but the sense of touch—unfazed by our mental clutter—delivers its message, loud and clear. Next time you’re in nature, close your eyes and just feel everything around you.

I just closed my eyes now and remembered the large, calloused hands of my father. As a child, in the pitch-black darkness of night, I would grasp his hands tightly, and that was all I needed to feel safe and drift off to sleep. There was no sound, no image, not even a soothing lullaby—just touch, and the comfort of knowing someone was there.

In *Journey*, the old man’s hands are often in the hands of the few people who can speak his language. He always has a smile on his face—a smile he has never seen in the mirror.