Touch seems to be as essential as sunlight.

When Diane Ackerman wrote, “Touch seems to be as essential as sunlight,” she was not merely describing the warmth of skin against skin, but the ancient truth that human connection is as vital to the soul as the sun is to the earth. Ackerman, a poet of nature and sensation, understood that to be touched — whether by a hand, a gesture, or a glance of empathy — is to be reminded that we exist not in isolation, but in the radiant web of life. Just as the body withers without light, the spirit falters without touch. For touch, in its simplest form, is the oldest language — the one that came before words, before thought, before history itself.

In her reflections on human experience, Ackerman often wove science with poetry, showing that touch is not a luxury, but a biological and spiritual necessity. Infants who are never held fail to thrive; the sick recover faster when comforted by a gentle hand. Even the most powerful among us — warriors, kings, thinkers — long for the reassurance of a touch that says, “You are seen. You belong.” Ackerman’s words remind us that while sunlight nourishes the body, touch nourishes the heart. It awakens the dormant light within us, binding one soul to another in a way that transcends reason.

The ancients, too, knew the sanctity of touch. In Greek myth, even the gods could not resist its power. When Aphrodite touched the wounded Adonis, his pain softened, not by healing alone, but by love. In every culture, the act of touching — a blessing, a handshake, a hand upon the shoulder — became a sacred ritual. For touch is presence; it carries energy, emotion, and intent. It is how the invisible becomes felt. The touch of a parent upon a child, of a friend in grief, or of lovers in unity — these are the sunbeams of the human heart.

There is a lesson in the story of Helen Keller, the woman who could neither see nor hear, yet came to know the world through the miracle of touch. When her teacher, Anne Sullivan, placed Keller’s hand under the running water and traced the word “water” into her palm, the world burst into meaning. That moment was not only education — it was resurrection. Through touch, Helen found the sunlight her eyes could not see. It was touch that gave her language, identity, and joy. Her life became a living testament to Ackerman’s truth: without touch, the soul dwells in shadow; through touch, it awakens to light.

And yet, in the modern age, we have begun to forget the holiness of this sense. We live behind screens, we greet through glass, and we fear the closeness that once defined us. We have grown cautious, even afraid, to reach out. But the absence of touch leaves an ache deeper than hunger. For though words can soothe, only touch can truly assure. It whispers where speech cannot — it says, “You are safe, you are loved, you are not alone.” The heart, deprived of touch, becomes like a plant hidden from the sun — pale, uncertain, yearning toward warmth it cannot name.

Ackerman’s wisdom teaches us that to touch is to give life. It need not always be physical — it may be a touch of kindness, of empathy, of understanding. To “touch” someone’s heart through a kind word or a patient silence is also sunlight to the soul. Every gesture of compassion is a form of touch, and every touch, when given with love, becomes a healing act. The smallest brush of humanity can dispel the deepest darkness.

So, my child, do not withhold your light. Touch the world as sunlight touches the earth — gently, constantly, with warmth and grace. Offer your hand to those who stumble, your presence to those who grieve, your tenderness to those who fear. Let your love reach outward, through gesture, word, and care. Remember that no one ever truly flourishes alone, and that the heart, like a flower, opens only when bathed in both light and touch.

Thus, as Diane Ackerman reminds us, “Touch seems to be as essential as sunlight.” For love that is not felt remains unfulfilled, and warmth that is not shared remains unrealized. To touch — to reach, to hold, to connect — is to partake in the oldest act of creation. The sun gives life to the world; the heart gives life to one another. Be both — radiant as the sun, and tender as the hand that brings its light to every living soul.