Love Letter to the World

Eleven months ago I did something I was afraid I'd never do.  I wrote a love letter to the world.  Whether it was received by a single inhabitant, or a million didn't matter.  That wasn't my concern.  I was terrified of pretending.   

It's a daunting, expansive moment, the one you pause in before you press 'publish', and let your thoughts loose in the world.  If you're in love with words like I am, you understand the nuclear capability they hold. 

Comparing words to bombs may be as silly as comparing a fish to a banana, and it is, until you realize the violence they reveal. When you do that, it makes sense. 

There is nothing ironic to me about how the smallest elements that exist in the world can contain a belligerence so forceful it can erase it.  An atom unleashes fissions process.  A single word is often the one behind a Soul's.  The improper handling of either can start a chain reaction that reduces everything it comes upon into Nothing, in less time than the instant it came upon it.

Neither should be trusted to dispense what they contain on their own.  Neither should be neglected.  The energy that exists in the world, whether it's in body, or mind, is there either way.  You're going to feel it.  Both the isotope and the thought can become too pregnant if you don't occasionally bleed them.

Asking anything so ridiculously small to hold back the impulse to erase every memory since time, or preserve them, would be foolish. 

Last, Dying Breath

This blog will end in a few weeks, as I close in on my 52nd birthday.  I'll take my death in private when it occurs.  I'm not planning to silence myself, however, now that I'm learning to speak.  I'm going to hand what's been handed to me, to others.  I'm going to help a few people find their voice.  

Before I sign off I need to say a few, final things.  Most importantly, I need to say thank you.  I owe a debt of gratitude outside the scope of what I could repay. 

When I made this public I didn't know what to expect, or if it would ever be read, or by who.  I was terrified of looking bad, or sounding stupid, or trying too hard, or being judged.  I was terrified I'd be seen, even when that's what I desperately wanted.  

After I made this public I learned there's this thing called analytics that comes with doing so.  Whether you're being read or not begins being measured.  So does where, and by whom, and on which devices.  Old or young.  Male or female.  U.S.A or Iceland, or both.  At home, or on a phone.  

Websites ask to include you, now and then.  Someone half a world away, some beautiful stranger you'll never know, clicks the 'follow' button.  Someone you've been familiar with for years, but don't really know, taps your shoulder at a football game, says "thank you", and keeps eye contact a moment too long to be sure you know why.  

Whenever any of these things happened I'd break a slight smile, and give a nod of my head.  I did that with the hope my gratitude would find it's way to you, wherever you are in the world.  

It's because of you that I no longer feel unseen.  Because of you, I feel I've been heard.  I see, and hear you, too.

Just A Number

In the internet world my analytics barely exist.  They hover somewhere beneath the bottom.  In my world, they were the metaphoric hand I refused to wash for a month because so-and-so touched it by accident.  

I know, I know, but that doesn't matter...  they saw me.  And, well, it's just that they never did before.

As someone who's heard very few validating comments in his life I didn't understand the transformative quality within them. It's sad, but I'm serious.

When I pushed 'publish' the first time I knew the odds.  I would either discover how genuinely alone, and irrelevant I am, or I'd discover I was neither.  So I did what I try never to do, and when I pushed the button I asked to be measured, too. 

When 2014 began, one common internet people place indicated my profile had been clicked on less than 50 times. Now it says 150,000.  During the 11-months this site has been up it's been looked at on 16,000 occasions.  It's shown me that the most heartfelt things that I wrote were the posts that were most often read.

I don't mention either of those statistics as a boast, or from ego.  I don't accept the accuracy of them either.  I know they're inflated.  More importantly, I know that seeing them, and watching them grow, allowed me to embrace the parts of myself that I love most.  

I know no one's ever allowed me to do that. 

If what I needed to say, or tried to say, hurt you, I'm sorry.  The same is true if I embarrassed you.  Although neither was my intention, I knew both would occur.  

If you are someone who can be honest with yourself, you'll acknowledge I told the truth, just as I'll acknowledge what's been said about me is the truth, too.  I'll even embrace it if it helps.  

I'm not ashamed of much anymore, not since being exposed. I'll claim the darkness in me along with the light.  I won't make excuses for  what I'll never do well, and I'll have a parade for what I do brilliantly, and with grace.  I won't ask you to accept me in exchange for my acceptance of you. I'll just choose to accept who you are, and let you make your own choice about me.  

I'll focus my learning around how to give Love away.  I know too much, already, about how to take it. 

What I'm attempting to say is the relationship I have with my writing is the relationship I have with myself.  It's the one I'm trying to have with my God.  It's the one I've wanted since I was a little boy.

I have it, in large part, because of you.  I have it because you let me be seen.  

You should try this on your own, with your real name, or a fake one.  You should sign-up for a free blog, and tell your story, 
or describe how to knit, 
or give advice, 
or teach gardening.  

Whatever.  

Just try it, and watch what happens to how you see the world, and how it sees you.  

I dare you 

I see you, clearly.