Counterpoint

It's easy to get a little disillusioned by internet life after a while. You read; you comment; you write; maybe you tweet a little. We all make friends, email, get busy, loose touch, our readers hit a billion posts and we have to back up, take a breath, dip back in. We think, what am I doing here? I could have organized closets and finally tried homemade play dough. (Okay, in my case, there would never be homemade play dough, but you know, ONE could home make play dough.)

So many of us pour our hearts, our thoughts, our joys, our sorrows out into that edit window, close our eyes and hit publish every day. Because it's fun. Because it's interactive. Because every blog is a window into someone's world. Because we like to write. Because we like affirmation. Because we are all shameless narcissists. Because human beings like to delight in others and be delighted in. I check all of the above. Does it matter? Because there is a community here. Here in this place called the internet and it's fun, and interesting and stimulating and dynamic and challenging to be a part of it.

Then. Then, as with anything, there's a downside. People can be cruel. Anonymity is powerful. A heart exposed can be cradled or cut. Disagreement and discourse are healthy and strong, but hate and cruelty are not. They are poison. A few huge voices speak up and say I don't deserve this. Nastiness is not okay. Judgment is not the goal. This is my space; my voice.

The negativity spreads like a noxious gas, thick and yellow. It's hard to see anything else. I think, is this it? Is the sum total of this place about cutting each other down? Finding fault. Passing judgment. Is that the purpose here?

I open my inbox and there's an email from a woman I'm just getting to know and it ends like this: "[Y]our words matter. And I just wanted to tell you." My whole day, my whole week, my whole attitude changes. How many times in your life do you hear that you matter to someone else, in some small way, stated out loud?

Another incredible woman gets an email and it ends like this: "What you're doing. The things you write. They make a difference." She decides to pay it forward and my whole day, my whole week changes.

Oh yeah. There it is. The purpose here. It shone so bright that I was blinded for a moment. I had to grope for my sunglasses and put them on and take a breath and take down my defenses and open my heart and then there it is.

I am not kidding when I tell you that I could pay if forward one hundred times. I have been moved and changed and taught and forced to grow and supported and hugged and comforted and challenged and engaged and loved by your writing.

Bon. Your words matter. Beth. Your words matter. Heather. Your words matter. Ann. Your words matter. Maggie. Your words matter. To me. (And so do yours, A.R., though I am atrocious with my email.)

My words matter. Your words matter.

Our words matter.

What you are doing. The things you write. They make a difference.

Comments are closed. If you were going to take the time to comment, I have a request. Add to Shell and Kim's energy. Tell someone you read that they matter. We'll blow a great big bubble of love so big that it will pop and get sticky goo all over the internet and the mean trollesque people won't be able to type because they'll have sticky goo on their hands and faces, but we will be able to type because we'll hand each other wet wipes. Internet parents ALWAYS have wet wipes to clean up the messes their unsupervised children make. XO.