I was trying to explain to someone recently about why I blog, which first involved defining the word ‘blog’ and then explaining the process, which in turn lead to a glass of sherry, which took me off track for a while, but I’m back now.
In the process of explaining what a blog was, is, I used the phrase “it’s like keeping a journal”. To which the response was, “But I thought you did that already!” And, actually, I do. A handwritten journal, in carefully selected books, a different one every so often! Imagine.
It’s not a daily thing, by any means, and in fact I can sometimes go for weeks without writing in it (although I usually feel guilty if I do that), but the journal to me is my chance to go on about others and, somtimes, myself.
I write, I muse, I bitch, about the people in my life. Permanent residents and passing strangers alike, but I keep the journal a private book, mostly to protect the permanent people in my life from being hurt by the fact that sometimes I don’t like them very much. Which is NOT the same thing as not loving them, or even respecting them, but sometimes people (and this most definitely includes me!) are not nice. They do or say things that I find… uncomfortable. My journal, which is completely private, gives me the chance to vent about those weaknesses – theirs and mine.
Passing strangers I don’t care so much about hurting their feelings, but at the same time… one never knows if today’s stranger will become tomorrow’s BFF!
A blog, to me, is selfishly, gorgeously, endlessly about me. About what I think, what I do, what I don’t do, what I look for, what I need, what I shouldn’t have. And if I express all those things about me publicly, I find myself thinking better about myself. I find myself thinking better about what I do. Or sometimes, don’t do. And it helps me, at least in part and some times, to put things into perspective.
One could, I suppose, find a therapist, and dump all this stuff on them. But it’s possible one might find, after awhile, that the need to write is not lessened, and the therapist’s bills are too high, and also, that the therapist’s office smells vaguely of Mr Clean and gym bags, and that’s a disgusting combination. So for now I, or rather one, blogs and finds invigoration in turning random thoughts into mostly coherent sentences.
As for the title of this particular blog, I found myself tapping out the word love on my iPhone about 97 times today. Which, on my iPhone, often comes out ‘live’, but that’s not the phone’s fault. I just type very fast. And I got to thinking about the word ‘love’ and how easily it can roll off the tongue in some situations, and how slowly it seems to come in others. And I also got to thinking about how we use the word ‘love’ to talk about things and ideas and people equally, when we love them differently.
For example, I love pomegranates, crisp bacon, lily of the valley, squishy pillows, new toothbrushes, Dick Francis thrillers, playing cribbage, and ice cold Stoli all very much. I love them pretty much equally, but quite differently, and most definitely not that same way I love either my country or my husband. Yet I use, we all use, the word love to talk about these things, these ideas, these people as if they were the same.
The word love is either too small or too big; I cannot make up my mind which, but it is. For now, however, it would seem to be the only word that we have at our disposal, so we will go on using it, and hope that the difference between my saying to my husband “I love you” and my saying to the first martini of the day “god, I love this” is clear.
Wait until I get to the part where I think it’s possible to love more than one person at a time…