I don't usually write when I'm upset. When something hurts me, or twists my truths, or shakes the core of my world- I phone a friend. I brew some tea. I ask my mother a question she couldn't possibly answer, and I write a million notes down in one of my million notebooks.
I don't usually write in the moment of a broken heart. I'm not ready.
I wait to digest my thoughts. I taste them- the flavor and texture- and then let the acids that fizzle inside of me break them down. I let the fire inside of me burn them up, until all that is left over are the indigestibles.
Right now, I can't seem to process anything. My insides are completely full of huge, indigestible feels.
I rally around leftover ideas that smell sweet in the light of my campfire, but still never seem to ash.
"This is my official Rarasaur timeslot," Sreejit says. I live on the other side of his world.
"This is my official Rarasaur writing spot," E's mom says. It's a spot I'll most likely never see.
Why do these thoughts remain? Even when I'm upset about something entirely unrelated to my blog?
These shared ideas mean I am loved. They mean I am heard.
For unfathomable reasons, people have let me into their world- into their minds- and my message is one that they have chosen to hear.
From my foldable chair in Long Beach, California, I am standing in an elevator with a man who makes hundreds of pounds of curry for an ashram in India.
And he is looking at me, and seeing me, and hearing me.
I know this man.
I know how he speaks to his mother, and how he has learned to speak the sacred language of hugs. I know how nightmares wander into his words. I know about a tie he once wore to work, and what taking it off really meant for the whole shape of his life.From my foldable chair in Long Beach, California, I am standing in an elevator with a woman who is going to become a veterinarian.
And she is looking at me, and seeing me, and hearing me.
I know this woman.
I know the words that she has tattoed to her heart, and the types of cards she buys for her daughter. I know some of her deepest fears, and the way she loops her letters, and colors that catch her fancy.And they wait patiently for the things I have to say because they know me, too. They know my elevator pitch by heart.
You probably know it, too.
It goes like this:
You are loved.
Every other word I waste and every story I spend, all comes back to this.
You are loved.Sometimes I use this platform to remind myself that I'm worth the effort of existing, and sometimes I remind you that hard is hard. In other words, every piece I've ever pieced together says:
You are loved.Sometimes people tell me that I have no obligation to these people or this place. They act as if I'm sitting in a folding chair, five minutes from the edge of the world, typing vaguely in the direction of dots scattered throughout a map.
What does it matter, they say? It's just a blog.
If the sun goes down over a man in India, while he washes a pot big enough to bathe in, and he doesn't know he is loved- what does it matter? If the sun rises on a woman as she piles veterinary books in a tote bag, somewhere in the middle of Illinois- what does it matter?
But I have knowing.
My Knowing tells me we're not so distant as all that. Even the elevator-metaphor doesn't sit right in my belly.
I'm not standing at a carefully polite distance, throwing vague promises at you. I'm in a folding chair, inches from you, whispering the only message I have that matters, splashing my coffee on the floor as I lean in close to you and repeat:
You are loved.Even though my heart is too broken to know which way is up, I know that. I go to bed every day, and wake up every day, with the certainty that I am loved and so are you.
I wish I could package that Knowing. I would mail a bottle to your space on our tattered map, so you could drink it. So you could get drunk on it.
So you could feel the certainty bubble through your veins like sweet champagne.
You are loved.Every once in awhile, I feel like anything I could write would be a redundant resounding of those three words, but then Life reminds me that not everyone believes the message, even if they have let it into their elevators.
Some of you go to bed, and wake up, without the Knowing.
The very idea of that makes it impossible for me to sleep and hard to wake up.
You saved my life by existing. That's no exaggeration. How could you not feel loved?
I want to roll out of my bed and into your story. I want to climb into your mind. I want to peel away all my scarring and band-aids and let myself bleed out the thoughts that might help you understand that things go wrong sometimes.
Things go oh-so-horribly wrong.
And then they get better.
I want to vomit up the unprocessed thoughts that have bloated my stomach, in hopes you could see that sometimes unhappy things take up all the space in our lives.
Sometimes they fill us up.
But then time washes them away.
Time washes all things away, the way the ocean pushes at the shore and moves me closer and closer to the coastline every second.
And none of that matters.
It really doesn't.
You aren't counting the inches I stand from the shore, and you aren't measuring me by the things that have happened to me or around me.
And I'm not measuring you.
I process things slowly, sometimes. Slower than usual lately. It doesn't mean I don't remember my elevator pitch. It doesn't mean I don't completely panic at the idea that you could be walking around, not feeling loved.
I'm having trouble digesting my thoughts because my heart is a little broken, but a wise man just told me that a broken heart is a ready heart.
So consider me ready.
Ready for what? I don't know. The possibilities of my readiness are just one of many of my current indigestibles. There are so many things I cannot do.
But I can do this:
I can sit in my folding chair and hear your message, and hope you're hearing mine.
You are loved.No matter where you'd be on a faded map, if you were just a scattered dot.
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Regular readers know the drill. The above badge is for you, if you want it. Either way, it's true. Say it aloud till you believe me.
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This is what happens when I write before I have a chance to digest thoughts. I watched a video from Grace Helbig and worked myself up into a full tizzy of thoughts about the obligation of social media, the essence of social media, the impact of the messages we spread, and the possibilities of the conversations we start.
(Also, much love to Sreejit and E's mama because I always know I can reference you without getting written permission and eight signatures, no matter what I intend to say... and because you're both so loving and loveable.)
(Also, I promise the days of 100 word posts about nothing serious are coming again. I didn't even want to post this one because I'm starting to sound so dramatically emotional, but I honestly couldn't think of anything else to write for the last few days. I think this needed out!)
What's your elevator pitch? How real is social media to you?
What sort of chair do YOU sit in?
It's a long story, but the short version is I love you. Stop by and say hey, okay? View all posts by rarasaur
