Texture under the hand, the sense we forget we have

Touch registers constantly and is reported almost never, which leaves a surprising amount of pleasure unclaimed.

Sight and sound get all the attention because they can be shared and described. Texture cannot really be photographed or played to somebody else, so it goes unrecorded, and things that go unrecorded tend to go unnoticed. But the hand is busy all day: a smooth banister, the grain of a wooden table, a cold tap handle, worn fabric on the arm of a chair, the specific give of good paper. Each of these is mildly pleasant and each is usually processed as information rather than experience.

The reason to mention it is that touch is the sense hardest to be distracted out of. You can look at a view while thinking about something else, but if you deliberately notice the surface under your hand, the noticing is immediate and complete. There is no lag. It is the quickest route back into a room, which is useful on the days when the room has been absent for hours despite your body being in it.

This is not a case for handling everything. It is an observation that a whole channel of ordinary pleasantness is running all day at low volume and rarely gets listened to. Worn things are usually better than new ones here, because wear is the record of use and it feels like it. A step that thousands of feet have rounded off, a handle polished by hands, a cloth softened by washing: all free, all quietly good.