washwords

One of the things I love most about the blogosphere is the strange and wonderful ease with which you can find people and topics of interest, some by design and others by wonderful accident. See my blogroll below, at the bottom of the page, which contains both friends, some of who encouraged me to write (again); and, on the opposite end of the spectrum, the fabulous things I’ve found, some via these friends, some by searching for terms or concepts (poetry!, washington!, pope!) and some by true and beautiful serendipitous accident.

But what happens when these two worlds collide? What if, by complete and seemingly implausible accident, you stumble onto some beautiful writing… but beautiful writing of someone who is not exactly a stranger, but not a friend, exactly either.

I stumbled onto the writing of “C” (not her real name, to protect the very much innocent) this way. C, some 10 years younger than me, and I have never met. But I know her well or rather I knew her father very well in one very intense moment, a moment one of the hardest points in all of our lives, for separate reasons.

When I was separating from my now ex-husband, C (and her siblings) and her father were dealing with the profound loss of her mother. C’s father and I met talking about loss, the huge empty space in all of our lives. I felt genuine love for his children; I had been when they were. In particular, I felt for her – a girl C’s dad described as sensitive, emotional, quiet and dependable. I told him I genuinely loved his children though I didn’t know them and I meant it. By wanting them and him to get through this loss, I helped myself take the first steps toward getting over my own great loss, the death of my father some almost 20 years ago, when C’s father and I met.

The connection was deep and intense, the way I like them; we both had so much grief and pain. I wanted to make him whole and better again, and by extension heal his family and thereby myself. In hindsight, obviously impossible, like everything about that love, it didn’t make it any less real or make me want it or grieve it any less when it inevitably ended. We never seemed to have an ordinary minute. Nor did I want one. It ended dramatically, painfully; I’d put so much at stake. But now when I think back, more objectively now, I remember only snowstorms and tears and long walks and deep stares and I know: it was important, both its occurring and its ending.

So when, my genuine accident, I stumbled upon the familiar name in a blog abandoned a few years ago, I literally gasped and then… I was filled with a oddly sisterly pride – this young woman, had in fact grown up and survived and… she was a writer, like me, a damn good one, too. I couldn’t resist reading, though perhaps I shouldn’t have and couldn’t help leaving a comment, one that simply said what was true that I found her VERY much by accident, found her to be a beautiful writer and hoped she would write more. I signed it anonymous of course.

She wrote about her father and her mother, too. She wrote essays and poetry, like I do (or hope to). She wrote in the style I like and the style I remember from my college days. She wrote about her loss and I was moved to tears and wished I could tell her how proud I was that she was doing it, surviving, honoring her mother in her memories and her talent and loveliness.

Instead I left my anonymous note, wishing I could sign it, but knowing I could not and should not make contact. Some six months or so later I went back, on purpose this time.

That’s how I noticed a new entry, from just a few days ago. I wondered was she inspired / encouraged by the anonymous nudge? Either way, I am glad to have read it and hope she will continue. Either way, I am proud of us both and whether they see this writing or not, know our dads are as well.

(note: I can’t share the blog but hope you find it or your own happy stumble.)