::: From the neighboring ridge . . . :::

Comes an answering howl: an answer, indeed, to my own little self.

I believe that every blogger (can that really be a noun?) eventually comes to the place where she/he wonders why the heck she/he feels so compelled to share what otherwise might remain private details of life or thought—in what is, in spite of the way it might sometimes feel, a totally public forum. Am I just showing off? Am I that self-centered? Am I some kind of verbal exhibitionist?

We wonder if we put our families’ innocence at risk. We feel guilt that we’re spending too much time writing and not enough time interacting.

But we don’t really want to stop doing what we’re doing. We wouldn’t ask the questions if we were fine with not doing it. We want to write. The question is, why? And hard on the heels of that one is this: can there be any real value to doing this thing?

I’m thinking about a place we found on a drive between Texas and Utah one summer. An echo canyon. There was even a Forest Service sign, “ECHO CANYON,” at the tiny turn off. Of course, we had to stop; we had four kids with us. We drove in over a rough red dirt road—far, far back into the rock – even though the sun was setting and there was no one else around, and we were in a vehicle that was far from being any kind of SUV.

So why?

For the chance of hearing the planet throw our own voices back at us, that’s why.

I’ve talked about bats before – how they use sound waves to orient themselves in space. They vocalize, and it’s the sound that comes back to them that allows them to avoid flying full tilt into a tree trunk or a rock face.

When people talk, they watch each other’s faces—looking for some small sign of connection or approval. Not all people do this. Some people, those who are on the extreme ends of the male spectrum, for instance, do not seem to do this. But it’s important—in business, maybe, or in politics – speaking and watching reactions closely. Also in building any kind of community. Which means, gathering a group of people who can commune with one another.

When someone you don’t know well (or somebody you know only too well) comes into your house, you may react in any number of ways. If you are like me, your vision becomes very sharp and you can see every smudge on your walls, every dog hair, every shabby corner, the fine fuzz of dust on the light fixtures. Everything that exposes your real

(There are people who do not do this. There are people who are actually very pleased with themselves and don’t ever notice the chasm between their self concept and the actual reality of their condition. Lucky slobs.)

But sometimes, some very happy times, I find myself realizing that the person who has come into my house is not seeing these things I am seeing. Instead, she is taking in that things that make our family unique. Interesting. Weird, maybe. “Your place is so homey,” they might say – they have said. And I hear myself responding:

“It is?”

At that point, I begin to look at my home in another way. Like a person who has lived with something good for so long, she doesn’t actually see it anymore – and hadn’t known that she was already, in fact, happy.

So here are two reasons why I write these things. One of them is that, in showing someone else, especially some kindred spirit, the small homes of my soul – the words, the things made by hand, the children, the animals, the faith, and even the outrages – I am able to see these things for myself, and find them valuable and interesting and even precious. And when someone leaves a comment – a human murmur of interest – I am free to gaze at my blessings without shame, or to feel shame that I had taken the sweetness of my little life for granted.

And part of this is offering up hope. Or healing. Look at this, I might be saying by showing these things to you. I want to be happy, so I assume that you want to be happy too, and so I’m showing you what has worked for me. And it has, in fact, worked for me—at least most of the time. Or some of the time. So maybe you could try some of these things and they might work for you, too?

The other reason has to do with community. Our social sphere, most of us, tends to be fairly small – limited by proximity and experience. If a person belongs to a church or works in a service industry, like a school or a hospital, she might meet and interact with a lot of people. But how many of those people does she really connect with?

I think we are built with a need to mingle lives. We need to know other people, connecting in meaningful, constructive ways. It’s the way we survive, by building a diverse but still harmonious community of friends and family – so that our strengths have meaning and our weaknesses give meaning to others.

My little family is the kernel of my community. And then the family beyond our house, also loving. Then a few friends with whom the connection is deep and precious – becoming family. And then other good and cherished friends – neighbors, ward members, maybe co-workers, with whom some kind of meaningful understanding has been woven – in all shades of significance, from dear to fond to nodding acquaintance and willing service.

But in this venue – made all of words and pictures – I can go fishing for other kindred spirits. And I have pulled a few wonders out of this planetary ocean: Jenni, who lives in Australia, Dawn in Seattle, Lindy in Oregon, Linda in South Africa, Julie in London, Donna in North Carolina, Jeanene in the Dominican Republic, Wabi in Montreal – Christina and Heidi and Laurie (and Hazel) and a few others I see from time to time.

And some friendships, like the ones I have with Cori and Laura and Marilyn and Sam, have only been deepened through this medium. Precious friendships I’d have missed – liking them only in passing – without the blogs to give me plenty of reason to love and respect and enjoy.

Can there be good in this blogging, then? Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. Our writing and reading cast lines around the planet, connecting people of good heart in every place—and can draws them all together, all the connections. I don’t even have to know people’s real names to care about what happens to them, to learn from them, to know I need to pray for them, to know that if something bad happened to me, or something good, it would matter to them.

We are a new kind of community. Easier, perhaps, since we don’t see each other and don’t have the chance to borrow things and not return them. But valuable nonetheless.

I’m not sure there can ever be too much learning, too much having some experience beyond our same-old, same-old, too much love.

So that’s why I do it. Why I read. Why I write.

And that’s my answer.

Self – are you listening?