I start listing my reasonable explanations for why I abandoned this practice. I stopped liking social media; it turned out not to be the forum for creativity and interesting discussion I thought it would be when I joined up. First I had to quit Instagram for fear that I would outbully my children's bullies. Then I realized that Twitter wasn't the healthiest place for me as it seemed to be the ultimate "rank out session" as we used to call it on Long Island in my ever growing more distant youth. I don't need the opportunity to be a jerk in 140 characters (yes I quit back then), that's a gauntlet I will take up and slap everyone with, to my chagrine. By the time Tik Tok came around I was safely sheltered away from the fallout from two political elections and opinions that I could never bear to hear or share because I don't agree with anybody's opinion, ever. I don't even agree with my opinion from yesterday but I'm always ready to get into a fight over it, arms swinging wildly because I have so little self control.
So why not use social media as a tool for my desired goals instead of letting it dictate to me? Why not socialize nicely with old friends and family, share my thoughts, or just keep them in an archive I could access some day? Have you ever heard the expression "she threw out the baby with the bathwater"? That's my move. I threw out the bathwater and the baby with it and then finally threw out the bathtub. I come by this behavior honestly. My mom, when unable to control her own and her children's addiction to television with a level headed schedule that everyone would abide by, put the TV out to the curb on garbage day. Fair enough, I was always sneaking it behind her back. When Christmas materialism became too much and my mom was sick and tired of our greedy lack of gratitude, she threw the Christmas tree, lights and all, straight out the second story living room window. It was a grandiose gesture, worth the retelling over the years. Sadly we missed out on the opportunity for a more meaningful, simplified Christmas because we just could not control ourselves. Add to this that our family could take a decision like this and parlay it into a sort of dogma. Religious, moral, rule bound dogma helps to draw a line in the sand. If it's a rule that MUST NOT be broken then nobody has to take a thing and analyze it on a case by case basis. Case by case analysis is a lot of work and takes the wisdom of Solomon. Just cut the baby in half and be done. This poor baby, first thrown out with the bath water and then cut in half.
Is this a fair assesment of why I quit writing my words? Possibly. One thing led to another and then to another and I shut down the possibilities for myself to use outlets through social media. Honestly, less and less chronic social media was not a bad thing for me. But as I continue to read my own blogged words, the cowardly lion starts bawling uncontrollably, snot running down that jowly, furry face, choking, snorting. This is ugly. Becuase I have just read the real reason for my retreat. It's tucked into a birthday story for my son Miguel called "Long Journey, Short Time": "For a second, I wanted to, consquences be damned, gather him back into my arms like when he used to let me. I failed to reach out and grab my erstwhile baby because my heart wouldn't have been able to withstand the recoil." I cant even see through the tears as I type out the quote. For quite some time I have been worried about how I've stopped reaching out to hug and touch my kids as adults. Why and where did it happen that the vast crevasse between us opened up? Once upon a time we were Echad, a compound unity, as I held them in my body waiting to be born. I nursed them (horrifying thought for adolescent children), I held them, I taught them, they were my best effort, sometimes my worst. Often I failed them and maybe that's where the spaces grew. Also, there came time for them to grown away from me. This was neccessary and hard. But I was a coward. I was afraid of the recoil. I was afraid of being hurt. So slowly, slowly I touched them less and now I don't know how to start hugging them again, casually being like " Hey, want a hug?" It's awkward to leap out from the shadows and accost them now that I've acknowledged my own lack, my own failure and want to reverse it. We shall see what schemes I devise to rectify this situation. It might be difficult because one is in New York and one in Florida. But these are excuses because two live in my house. Beware children. Be brave Meghan.
Similar but different is starting to gather the courage to write again. I can't remember how to insert a hyperlink any better than I know how to wrestle my kids back into my arms. It's not that big a risk because I literally have no audience. But I do have this imaginary audience, a monologue, diabologue (read either diabolical monologue, or dialogue with a bo: both make equal nonsense) a decalogue of critics, detractors, second, third and fourth guessers right inside my head rooting me on to failure. But there is nothing to fail, this writing is just a way of remembering my thoughts, making a pile of stones in memorium of the smallest milestones of my life, a way to gather my children, my family, my hopes, my fears into my outstretched arms and hug them to myself and cherish them in my heart.
In the words of the song:
“I could while away the hours, conferring with the flowers, consulting with the rain.
With the thoughts I'd be thinkin' I could be another Lincoln
(sidebar I don't have to be another Lincoln even though we share a birthday, just the same old Meghan)
if I only had a brain..... a heart..... the nerve.”
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