On pondering some of life's sweeter moments, I concluded that tapping has played a rather major role in my existence. Late nights in Africa when sleep was hard to find, I'd lay awake and listen to my friends Matt and Hannah tapping through the wall as if to communicate their conflict with the things we were seeing. They'd tap out their sleeplessness, their frustration with injustice, their happy thoughts in the middle of the night. It was a comforting sound although occasionally slightly frantic, it was safe. If Matt and Hannah were tapping, things were okay. Late nights in Auckland when homesickness takes its toll, Louise and I tap on the wall. I tell her all sorts of things via the hardwood. I discuss my day, my ups, my downs, my fears, my flaws, my dreams. She tells me similar things back. It's a comfort. It's the knowledge that someone is simply there, listening and constant.
Even the smallest effort to communicate is an encouragement. In a moment of sadness or fear or even just plain insomnia, a word or a tap or a touch or two can drain out loneliness. It can remind you that you don't stand solo in a crowd of cold, you have a hand to hold, an ear to listen, a neighbour to tap to.
Tap to someone.