As I read people's blogs, I feel as though I have entered sacred spaces; I'm in their houses, through their closets, among their spice jars, in their hope chests. And I was invited in.
Blogging feels like journaling, but it is a lot more. It is the fence line between the private and the public. Sometimes we are there still in our robes and scuffies; sometimes we have dressed formally and are taking ourselves to town. We know that our thoughts have been made public. But we are also secure in the fact that we wanted this. Aren't we tired of made-up reality shows? Nobody tells how it really feels to live in our skins, in our town, in our times.
We label our new life, busy and happy. Most labels are wrong. We have to keep boredom in the close, anxiety in the back-roome and frustration can come out only on birthdays.
Blogging is our pulse taking for the fifteen, thirty minutes that we spend creating and posting. One day, in the next century, somebody will become rich mining these sites. If I were writing for movies and television, if I were running for office, if I cared to know what it is that people do, I would read these blogs.
Life has no map and no guideposts. We prepared for the life of work; we are discovering a life that does not get exposed much at all.