Why Blog, or I Know This; I Know You

For weeks now, I have been pondering this blog, asking myself questions like, “Why blog? Why is it important? Is it even important? Isn’t it a little narcissistic or self-important? Why put such personal bits of your life right out there in the open for anyone to see? And who would care, anyway? Everyone has a life he or she is living right now at the very same moment you are. And everyone has a past. And these lives have the potential to be far more interesting and exciting than anything you have to offer. Why not just put it all down in one of your many hand-written journals?” The questions could march on, fall down, and continue to roll along the slippery slope.

I measure the growth of my life by the number of its fractures. There have been many, and each fracture seems to have been a starting-over. Like a new life, but not a new life, exactly. And in the manner of fractures, I like to believe that each one heals over as a broken bone heals and is stronger along the fault line than before. But the truth is: I carry these bone-bits. They are gathered in a black velvet bag the shape of my heart, and it has a silver drawstring to keep them all safe inside. I wish I could open that bag, shake the bones between the palms of my hands, and release them onto the table top. I wish I could read those bones and have them tell me a fractured story that reveals the whole truth and the truth about what comes next.

I own my loneliness, and lonely is a difficult text, at best. One could be physically surrounded by some of the greatest people in the world and still be lonely. I suppose I am looking to share my loneliness with the world and hold hope that others will find solace and a kindred spirit in me and in the words and experiences about which I write. I want to share with others what is, what has been, and what will be difficult, then show them that it is possible for light to be born of so much darkness.

It’s not that I’m fishing for “followers.” Or playing a popularity game. Or fretting over the number of hits and visits to my page. Or obsessing about whether or not a reader left a comment. But the comments are a nice surprise, like flowers on your doorstep when you least expect them. Because those comments aren’t just unexpected flowers; those comments are other individuals who just stopped by, knocked on the virtual doorframe just to say, “I know this; I know you.”

And with that, the loneliness eases—if only for a little bit.

In peace and love…