This blogging somewhat private, but not. Well, not at all. A friend recommends this to me. More thoughts to read, less personal, upscale public journal. Mmmm. I don't commit myself and tell her we will see. Being drawn to reading the daily thoughts of others for entertainment or learning, indentification. My friend, she says it's like peeking over someone's shoulder. "What are you writing?" Not interesting, don't agree? It is easy to move on in an instant. Click. Continents apart.
My friend, she likes to blog. To her it is therapeutic. To write, to read. Some time ago she wrote me - in letter form -posted and mailed - about something she was experiencing with a child of hers. She told me how blogging helps her cope, sort things out, go back and reread her own words and know exactly where she wrote what -they are there in black & white ready to edit, delete, rearrange in an instant. Her experiences cannot be handled as easily, the spoken words, the actions taken. But the blog....
Writing, she says, helps her see from outside the box rather than in, where she lives daily. It is helpful going to it again and again. Like somehow the reading of it will change the past. It doesnt, she confesses to me. Pressing finger to key is somehow her own punishment. She cant deny it if it's out there. The truth is in the type. Keep writing, I tell her. There are others who give her advice as they too read. She wrangles with words, she shares her heart.
She is now writing of a child, her child. I remember that child -the happy silly one with so much joy to share. How did they let life's circumstances creep in and change things? They grow up to grow away she writes. That is the way it is supposed to be. That is what we tell each other. She struggles with that. I can feel her hurt as I read. I too am a mother. Who said that anyway? Who said that it's normal? There are some parts of the world it is not so, family is fiercely important - worth forgiving and changing for. My friend is changed. She wants more. I agree. But we live in a different time, I tell her. She is an old soul who lives in a world apart from what is 'common'. She writes of her sadness. Broken family. Broken. When is it a good word?
"What can I do? How can I glue it back so it will be stronger than before?" I read. Sometimes that happens.
She is suffocating. She writes, 'My covers at night are heavy holding me down. I'm trying to breathe easy again without the squished feeling in my chest."
Well, fling off the covers then! How did she let them get so heavy?
Stupid words. Misunderstandings. Lack of communication or lack of compassion? Or just stupidity.
It sets me to thinking. Words are powerful. Do we even know how powerful?
Those same chains, that unwitting words forged link on link over the years, pulled them apart. They can be broken. Broken chains, that's a good broken.
I remember once read: 'May the words of my mouth light gently on the minds of men.'
Love covers a multitude of sins.
Where have I heard those words before?
I would like to read the happy ending of this story in her blog one day. I'm sure I will.
