Exposed

Writing is such a personal act.  When a person blogs, it’s a little like undressing in front of window with the shades open.  A blog has the guise of privacy, a 50/50 change of anonymity.  It doesn’t become public until someone looks, much like undressing in front of the window.  One doesn’t have to worry about anyone seeing, unless s/he turns his/her head at just the right moment.  But when s/he does, the act of being exposed is embarrassing, blush-worthy.  We have allowed someone to see that which we have so fiercely protected up to that moment.  So why take the risk?

Why, indeed?  I can speak only for myself, and I blog because there is so much swirling inside - thoughts, emotions, memories, but mostly thoughts.  What I think can only be expressed like this.  I don’t feel comfortable sharing my thoughts, face-to-face with others.  Their non-verbals present the ultimate risk.  I don’t even care if they agree or disagree with me.  What I can’t tolerate is being mocked, feeling marginalized.  And so, I just put it all out here.

But what is “it”? Mostly, these are the big ideas on life that I have to work out.  Eleanor Roosevelt apparently said, “Great people discuss ideas, mediocre people discuss events, and small people discuss people.”  I try to spend most of my time on the first.  Commentary on the second usually leads to conflict, and third, well, that’s just a recipe for disaster.  It’s not really relevant anyway because people are works in progress.  They never stay the same.  What could be said one day about a particular person could be completely obsolete and irrelevant the next.  Why bother?

Once physiological and safety needs are satisfied, Maslow says that we all crave love/belonging, self-esteem, and self-actualization in that order.  I feel as though I am a member of the C team, since I have spent most of my life trying to get past number three on the list.  But haven’t we all?  Let’s be real.  Even before the digital age widened the gap in the search for love and belonging, I was clawing for it.

I have spent most of my life on the outside looking in.  At least, that’s the way it’s felt.  I suppose to the average observer, it seems as though I am comfortably inside the fence, and maybe I am, but certainly not comfortably.

I just want to belong, like really belong.  To me, that means I want someone to be looking for ME.  Waiting for me to arrive.  I want someone to find me intriguing, mysterious, captivating in a way that causes another to hang on my every word, breathless and surprised by what I will say next.  I want to be first, to be chosen first.  I want to be invited, and not because it’s obligatory to do so.  I want to come to someone’s mind first - like it can’t happen unless I am there, and I want to see joy and relief when I arrive.

Likewise, I want to be loved.  Oh, I know I am loved.  It’s a love that’s like a worn-in shoe, comfortable, predictable, consistent.  I’m not complaining about it; I want something deeper, more intense.  I want to be cherished, like I’m something special, unique, valuable.  There is something to be said for physical touch as well.  I’m not talking about touch that is a prelude to sex.  I’m not talking about the obligatory hug, expected between family members and friends.  I’m talking about organic physical touch, the touch that is frequent and follows the overflow of the heart - a touch that is at once protective in its fragility.

What would it be like to be treasured, much like the discovery of a surprising, fragile piece of sea glass from an ocean shore?

These are thoughts. They aren’t worth much, but I certainly would never share them with anyone in conversation.  I have removed a couple of layers, exposing what lies within.  As I pull the shade, I raise my eyes for one last glimpse, and I see you staring back at me.