I’m a hugger. I love that long, hard, heart-to-heart, arm-ensconced, deep-breathing moment of physical connection.

It doesn’t matter if it’s with an old loved one or a new one, or frankly, in certain circumstances, a stranger. People who like to hug aren’t picky that way. We just like a moment to stop everything and enjoy some significant touch. Hello, human being. I can open my heart to you. My protective bubble. I can trust you to be safe and thank you for trusting my ability to do the same. Let’s not be afraid for just this moment. Whether it’s a concave shoulder hug or a full-frontal convex one, there’s no correct hug. A hug is a hug is a hug. It’s an allowing and honoring of personal space.

Right now, as pretty much every single human being on the planet knows, hugs are dangerous. If we’re very lucky, we have a person or two in our homes who we can safely hug due to sheltering-in-place. But even then, if we’ve been to the grocery store or anywhere in public, even with social distancing, a hug is a hazard. And so most of our globe is hug-less and has been for months. I worry about the things we’re all worrying about in this pandemic, but I worry about this perhaps most of all. What are the repercussions of not touching one another? I suspect vast. Hugs are innate. Look at children on a playground. They hug each other before they’re done with their first twirl on the merry-go-round. Hugging is part of how we do life. And I miss it.

So it’s no small surprise that I’ve been dreaming about getting hugs lately. Not giving them. Getting them. Asking for them. Finding just the right person to get them from. And it’s always somebody from my past who represents safety, non-judgement, and true unfaltering kindness.

Last night it was a poet friend from my Seattle days, when we’d meet and read our writing to one another, and cook Italian food. She gives the best hugs. Long and lingering and solid, and usually with an apron on and a wooden spoon in her hand, something lovely simmering on the stove.

I’ve also been dreaming about sitting on a sunny, white-washed deck on a Greek Island with a table full of friends eating and drinking and laughing on a lingering, lolly-gagging weekend afternoon. These people are strangers, to me and to one another, but we all love each other and we feel like we’re a part of something special, clandestine, a yet timeless. And that just makes it more these-are-the-good-old-days-esque. We’re wayward travelers and we’ve each come upon this restaurant on this white-washed deck in the sun, and we know how lucky we are and that’s why we’re going to sit here all afternoon. Eating and drinking and laughing. And as the day goes on, hugging. I miss that too: how any gathering can yield so quickly to hugs before it’s over. How many times have you met someone with a handshake, and after just one conversation, said goodbye with a hug? Happens all the time to me.

Now even a handshake is dangerous too. So I dream about touch and togetherness. Not sex. Just…basic human touch. I wake up so happy. I have never dreamed about such happy, light, lovely things in my life.

Historically, I have haunted dreams that wake me with a pounding heart, gasping for air, and I know I’ve been holding my breath in my sleep, that’s how scary the dream is. It’s usually about some giant dark force announcing itself in a terrifying jumbotron in the sky, sending down non-human troops of giant evil heartless machines to take over our world. Steal us from our families and friends and life as we know it. Take over our hugs. I don’t watch scary movies as a rule. And these dreams are so exact, it throws me off kilter every time that my mind even knows how to go there. But it does. Often. And maybe that’s why I’m dreaming about hugs and happy gatherings. Because my nightmare, for a time, has come true. In a way. Only the enemy is invisible. Until it is upon us.

I guess that when hugs are abundant, our subconscious can peer into our deepest fears. And when they are not, we peer into our greatest longing.

When I was on book tour in early March for my new novel, Willa’s Grove, everyone was still shaking hands and hugging. Soon it became clear that we needed to stop. And it became clear to me that I needed to come home and live a virtual life with virtual hugs. I’ve never thought more about real hugs in my life. My young adult kids are home, thank GOD. I ask them for hugs. They sort of roll their eyes but allow the hug, and I hold them hard enough, and long enough for them to say, “Mom, this is getting weird.” I hold on anyway. I fear for those who can’t get a hug, “weird” or otherwise, at all.

When I think about the hugs I long for, I think about how hugs were changing before we had to stop giving them altogether. In the last years of post-empty-nest travel, domestically and internationally, I noticed that people hug differently. They hug with a side-to-side rocking, like they’re trying to calm a baby. I don’t like that kind of hug. It’s like they’re afraid to hold the hug, solid, and true. Like they’re trying to get out of it early. I’ve also noticed that when people are finished with a hug, they’ll tap your back. Okay. That was nice. Now it’s time for it to be over please. I always notice that I’m the last one holding on. It’s always been that way, whether I’m in a relationship or I’m single. I’m simply a hugger. If you know me, you know that about me for sure. Sometimes, I forget that it’s not everyone’s cup of tea.

To that end, at my Haven Writing Retreats in Montana, for years I would walk in to our first social gathering and greet each person with a welcoming hug.

One time, about three years ago, one of the women said, mid-hug, with a tepid tone, “Oh. You’re a hugger.” And I let go. It didn’t occur to me that some people don’t like to be hugged, even if they’ve come all the way to Montana to take a deep dive into their heart language. Hugs seemed like part of what they’re after. But since then on my writing retreats, I always ask people privately if they are the hugging type before I offer a hug. In a group of eight people, usually one is a little ish-y, and it makes me realize how many hugs I’ve given in my life that aren’t necessarily wanted. And I feel sort of bad about it. But not that bad. People need touch. And to me, a hug in a safe place from a safe person is so innocent and fulfilling. I wonder if the non-huggers out there right now are secretly relieved. Their bubble is secure. No one putting out their hands for a shake or arms for an embrace. Phew. I don’t judge them. I just worry for them. And now I worry for all of us.

Whatever is your Rorschach on hugging, I think things are going to be very different when we can gather again, safely.

And I don’t mean in this stage of countries and states slowly, and hopefully prudently and responsibly, opening up. It’s too early for hugs. Please, please, please…keep your distance. Give loving air hugs and waves for now. Hold your hand to your heart. Loving kindness can be expressed without touch.

But one day, and I have to believe it will come, we can go Woodstock again. The huggers will safely hug again. And I imagine that even the non-huggers might just be like the dreamy love mongers in the park at the end of Pike Place Market, who stand holding cardboard signs that say Free Hugs. Every time, I watch as people line up, smiling, for a free hug. I usually do too.

Maybe it won’t just be the Hippies and the street-love crusaders doling out the hugs. Maybe it will be a global playground of people giving Free Hugs everywhere. Until then, from my heart to yours however it’s delivered safely, here is my best hug.