Please keep in touch

"Do keep in touch," I said to a friend the other day. She had sold her flat and was about to leave London. Regretful that we'd no longer be neighbours, we agreed to keep in regular contact.

It was only afterwards that I found myself pondering on my choice of words.

I may well be wrong, but it seems to me as though the most powerful of our five senses is the one that we least appreciate and understand. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that we take it for granted.

In a world of constantly changing images and sounds, it is impossible to overvalue the miracle of sight, the vital gift of hearing. Taste and smell are also much to the forefront of our daily lives. But what about touch? Whilst it's an integral part of our vocabulary, does it feature equally strongly in our thinking?

We ask our friends to 'keep in touch'. We say we are 'touched' by an event or some unexpected kindness We 'touch base' when getting down to business. But it would seem that whereas the need for touching is fully recognised by our unconsciousness, it is more or less ignored at the conscious level.

Sight and sound can communicate a great deal, but, surely, it is only when we touch, physically touch, that words and sight are rendered redundant?

Take hugging, the benefits are scientifically proven. People willingly join groups with complete strangers to enjoy a session of hugging. They come away happy, relaxed and at one with the world about them.

Give yourself a good, bear-hug and see how good it makes you feel.

Now place your hand on your heart and take a long, deep breath. Did you feel the heart expand in relaxed response?

This is a picture that, for me, epitomises the power of touch. Look at it for a moment.

Can you feel the magnetic and electrical field buzzing between the two hands as they reach out to each other?

The fingers may not yet have touched, but the force of energy linking them is tangible.

Now . . . look a this second picture. Do you experience, as I do, a genuine sense of pleasure and relief that the gap has been closed, that the two hands have made contact?

I was taking part in a workshop the other week. One of the exercises we were asked to do was to express gratitude for our hands, something I'd never seriously considered.

After a few moments, I picked up my note-book and found myself writing these words:

"Never before have I realised the extent to which hands are vital to my life.

I need them to write (as I am doing at this moment), to feed myself, to touch and make contact, to stroke, to explore, to manipulate, to hold tight, to lever, to clutch, to pacify, to wave, to smooth, to caress, to play an instrument, to take a photo, to wash myself . . . wonderful, wonderful hands."

Have I convinced you of the vital importance of our fifth sense?

Please, keep in touch . . .

Why birdsong?

I wonder, were you awake at four o'clock this morning?

It's a time when I'm usually asleep, but this morning something woke me . . . something very loud and persistent . . . a sound that seemed to be coming from directly outside the window. It took a few moments for me to rouse myself and recognise what it was that I was hearing.

Not the traffic that you'd expect to hear in Central London, not the drone of low-flying aircraft . . . in complete contrast, it was the dawn chorus, the soaring notes of birdsong.

To my bemused mind it was as though all the birds in London, augmented by an influx of vociferous relatives from the suburbs, had congregated in our communal garden to give of their best. I didn't make this recording, but it will give you some idea of the amazing sound I heard.

I'm sure there's a good, biological reason why birds sing so loudly in the dark of a January morning. I'm sure there's an equally good reason why they should be singing with such abandonment three hours before sunrise. But, in this instance, I'd rather remain ignorant, so please don't tell me.

Let's stay with the questions . . . does it take one bird to start the chorus? Is it the same bird each morning . . . the early riser? And the others, snoozing peacefully on their branches, are they reluctantly summoned from sleep to participate?

What is so remarkable is that every different variety co-operates in this morning burst of song. They may well be establishing territorial claims, I don't know, but the actual song is one of unrestrained, joyful co-operation.

Quite apart from the question as to why birds sing in the early morning, why do they sing at all? Other species don't need to make music to attract a mate, warn off a rival, or sound an alarm. And, whilst we're asking questions, why do cats purr? To the best of my knowledge, no other mammal makes such evident sounds of pleasure.

Finally, why do we laugh? In the terms of the evolution of the human species there is not the slightest need for laughter. Yet we've been blessed with this wonderful, infectious ability that deflates pomposity and enriches our lives.

The memory of this morning's dawn chorus is still with me. It didn't just brighten the four o'clock darkness, it brightened the day. In these darkened times, we need a song in the darkness . . . a positive note to offset the headlines in the morning paper. We need birdsong . . . and purring . . . and laughter. And, as with the birds in the garden this morning, it needs to be communal to be fully effective.

"First there was birdsong," so the saying goes, "then birds were created to sing."

We can't let them sing on their own.

Let's challenge the darkness and join them . . . !