Connecting, I Connect

When others were sweating in soccer fields or balancing on gymnastics bars in 4th grade, I began a writer’s club. I persuaded two friends and my sister (my sister took a bit more literal arm-twisting) to join, and together we set out writing (and illustrating) short stories. I named it The Writer’s Block, unknowing, at the time, the frustration connoted in said title. The idea was to sell our novellas in the neighborhood for a quarter a piece. Being more artist than entrepreneur, many a story was written but none sold.
That little girl’s pen still scribbles and that little girl’s dreams still dances with unicorns and tree nymphs. She still writes because she has to write. And she still wants to find those who connect with these imaginings and ideas, with these stories and philosophies. Enter the blog.
The blog glistens with the morning dew on the spider’s silk, reflecting the prism of light in what can be a coldly stunning and life-sucking environment of internet disconnect and barrage of facts without faces. As Anne Lamott wrote, “Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: they feed the soul.” (Bird by Bird, p. 237)
The blog heralds “the need to express, to communicate” (from “La Vie Boheme” in Rent). The blog voices our concerns, our triumphs, the small beauties of our daily life, and the sorrows. The blog finds a sympathetic community when sharing hurts from backlash of rejection, from unpopular notions, from muddied experiences. The blog gives accolades to otherwise unnoticed jubilees. The blog brings together old friends and family separated by miles and kilometers and oceans. The blog discovers new friends through mutual interests. The blog introduces challenging ideas potentially warded off by our contained lives. The blog promotes a collective of philosophies and wisdoms.
I can read stories of chaplains finding hope and redemption in the throes of death and disease. I can read essays of edgy ideologies and epistemologies. I can read struggles of loving the emotionally absent mother.
I can tell you my review of my new favorite book, the lessons I learned from a recent cooking disaster, the colors of the arboretum or the magnificence of the ocean, my reflections on Plato’s continued influence, and my pains from life on this planet. I can write these things, so I can be healed and offer healing to others. I am a writer by blogging and so notice the small details of my backyard bunny, the education I receive from an afternoon with a six year old, and the off-beat comments of reserved friends. I live better when I write better. I share life, and I find life. I blog.