One of the most mysterious and wonderful aspects of blogging is how we can become so emotionally invested in the lives of other bloggers, whom we know only through words and, sometimes, through images. I find it nothing short of miraculous that:
...I am beside myself with glee because KayTar is starting to speak so clearly after only a few weeks with a hearing aid;
...I am nervously awaiting word as to whether Joy might soon be making a transatlantic move;
...I hurt for Allie, who is only ten but does not believe that she looks good in a bathing suit;
...I am frustrated about the fact that Melissa can't seem to get out of that accursed neighborhood of hers;
...I am thrilled that Bon got that job she wanted;
...I mourn Liam, along with the rest of you;
...I miss Mad, and I know I'm not alone;
...I nod my head in empathy and understanding when I read the new girl's accounts of life with her brand-new baby girl;
...And today my heart skipped a beat or more when I read whymommy's blog. She's had a rough couple of weeks and could use your support. Will you pay her a visit?
Relationships forged through words and photos are nontraditional, to be sure. But some of the most passionate love affairs in history have been conducted via the written word. There should be little reason to doubt our ability to have "real" feelings about so-called "virtual" relationships.
Have you ever heard of Sullivan Ballou? He was a soldier in the Civil War who hailed from Rhode Island. A week before the Battle of Bull Run, he wrote this letter to his wife Sarah:
July 14,1861
Camp Clark, Washington DC
Dear Sarah:
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days - perhaps tomorrow. And lest I should not be able to write you again I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I am no more.
I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence, in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing - perfectly willing - to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this government, and to pay that debt.
Sarah, my love for you is deathless; it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but omnipotence can break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly with all those chains to the battlefield. The memory of all the blissful moments I have enjoyed with you come crowding over me, and I feel most deeply grateful to God and you, that I have enjoyed them for so long. And how hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes and future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our boys grown up to honorable manhood around us.
If I do not return, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I loved you, nor that when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name...
Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless, how foolish I have sometimes been!...
But, o Sarah, if the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they love, I shall always be with you, in the brightest day and in the darkest night... always, always. And when the soft breeze fans your cheek, it shall be my breath, or the cool air o'er your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.
Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for me, for we shall meet again.
(Sullivan Ballou died during the Battle of Bull Run, one week after this letter was written.)
What do his words do to your heart? They hurt mine. I shed tears when I first heard them during Ken Burns' PBS documentary, The Civil War. These were real, not virtual, tears. I remember tasting their saltiness. Virtual tears aren't salty.
And I've never met Mr. Ballou. Nor his wife Sarah.
Quod erat demonstrandum, I hope.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
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5 comments:
It really is amazing how emotionally vested we become with those whose voices we've never heard. But I love you as I do my closest and dearest.
I feel deeply vested in these voices, also. Kate at Sweet|Salty is in my head and my heart, her grief - which she shares with extraordinary eloquence - makes me wish I could go to her and help in some way.
For me it gets back to that concept of bearing witness. We are part of a human community, and it is so easy to forget that when we are holed up in our houses and immersed in our lives.
I see that my troubles are minor, or I laugh, or I see that someone shares my pain.
Sometimes all it takes is a comment that says, "me, too" and my day is instantly better.
This stuff is endlessly fascinating.
I am totally there too, and it's one reason I feel guilt when I can't participate in the way I want to, provide the support I want to. I've had to set limits for myself and hope and pray that those of you who know me (and I count you among them, S) know that it's nothing personal. That I value the connection, but simply cannot keep up the pace.
I think there's a direct connection here and that sense of authenticity we've been talking about lately.
We *are* emotionally invested, and we accept one another's authenticity without question. How? How can this be in this space?
As someone interested in language, I see how these links are forged through words, through shared convetions, etc., but I am curious to know how others would approach this. What would the psychologist say is going on here, I wonder.
What Joy said - it's totally the source of my guilt when I can't - as is usually the case these days - get around and visit as much as I used to. I feel like I'm missing *lives* - lives that I care about. Deeply.
Powerful stuff.
aud3reycla3ireI think this is a fascinating issue, and you've really done it justice. I quickly zipped off to see if I have the links, and I recognise all but two of them. And yes, I want to help when there's trouble and rejoice when there is cause. The question of why we invest so much is a good one. It's not just the compelling writers -- although most mommyblogs are competent or better -- and it's not just the heartwringing problems. I like what mrs chicken says about bearing witness. Can the connectedness become too much? I'm not sure. But when I miss a couple of days I feel sad. And guilty.
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