Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedHow far too far?How near too near?Better safe than sorry?Maybe both, I fear.

Keep your distance. Stay close. Come here, you. Give me space.

The mystery of propinquity! Other creatures know without being told. Humans must dope it out for ourselves.

It’s a complex calculus. We’ve got physical facts, monitored by our senses: sight, hearing, odor, touch, taste. We’ve got practical facts: space, surroundings, circumstances, expectations. We’ve got emotional facts: desire, revulsion, affection, anger. We’ve got tools: proximity, gesture, appearance, tone of voice. Different tribes express intimacy differently. Our choices send messages. How galling to be misunderstood!

Mentally challenged folks often err in this department, getting worrisomely close or standing off too far. The “good manners” I was taught dictated propriety in affability. Shake hands, no hugging, no tousling, keep kisses pecks.

I’ve always envied naturals at nearness. I’m shy of physical touch. I don’t want to greet my friends as I might strangers; neither do I want to signal more affection than they’d welcome. Embracing guys confuses me especially – with what warmth?

Other creatures are specialists at assessing distance. Cats’ whiskers, fish’s flanks, bats’ radar, sharks’ electricity, vipers’ infra-red, insects’ antennae tell them all they need to know to locate predators or prey. Humans must feed the data into our brains to decide. Oldsters sometimes lose awareness of others’ nearness: this is sad.

Makers must gauge psychic distance. I write differently to Jane, family, friends, invisible readers. We bristle at those who address us with excessive or insufficient regard: who do they think we are!

Able writers declare their distance with their first words. Do they approach me as teacher, preacher, pal, clown? Trusting or wary? Upbeat or weary? Flippant or stern? Stand-offish writers frustrate me with their reticence. I like getting close enough to feel the heave and tears of makers. I’m better at embracing in print than in person (at least, I hope I am).

Debates about distance grew more fraught in the Me-Too era. Protecting folks from unwanted contact also protects them from hugs. When is fondling too fond? When am I “invading your space”? I want to invade your space – do I ever! – but legally.

From my school days, I recall no teaching about the decorum of distance – in life or art. One was expected to feel one’s way to aptness on one’s own. My decades writing have nudged me closer to readers without piercing your spiritual perimeter. Beat and Confessional poets and their counterparts and successors too often vomited their facts into their creations either as a cri de coeur or to coerce attention. After reading them I sometimes feel like showering. Who do they think we are!

Gauging right distance is a form of genius. The Goldilocks precept prevails: so far and no farther. Many, avoiding the risk of closeness, remain remote. Others trespass. How I envy writers who plump down in your silence as if they’ve known you always and start jawing! Montaigne, Jane Austen, Thoreau, Dickens, Trollope, Emily Dickinson are examples. I’m skittish about distance, as you may have noticed. I confide, but not all that confidently. Dog-pal Henry, by contrast, is full of himself and unabashed. I envy him too.

Familiarity dictates distance. The better we know a person, the more comfortable in their presence. I write better, I believe, because I write to you daily; I feel less nervous need to show off. The wider the distance between humans, the more we’re required to shout, gesture, wave semaphores. Some writers write to me as from across a chasm. I’m more a murmurer, I trust.