World Wide Web of Confusion

Fifty million registered users of MySpace, with roughly fifteen million of those being in the 'under 18' age group, and I have to wonder: What are we missing?

I have a friend that might call this the slow and painful degradation of society.

But, before I can nod my head in agreement, I must make a 'caught with my hand in the cookie jar' confession: I am one of those fifty million users. I am MySpace registered.

Of course, I can explain- my registration was merely a means to an end, a portal into the online photo albums of friends. And, I needed that entry, darnit, to answer the all important question thrown at me one day- "I met this guy on MySpace. Do you think he's cute?"

And, so, I typed in a few personal details, clicked enter, and thus joined a growing, and decidedly unexclusive, sub-culture of people who are screaming at the top of their internet lungs "Hey world, this is My Space!"

And, oh what a space it is!

It's the out-pouring of a generation (or two) of people saying "Look at me" "Hear me" "I've got something to say"

Now, I won't give in to my mind's tendency to narrow-- this is not about MySpace-- or even the hundred or so like websites. MySpace, in and of itself, is a largely innocuous enterprise (with millions of dollars in adspace sold, an affiliated record label, and an affiliated production company, MySpace is, undeniably, an enterprise)

This is about the dawn of a new era of human relationships and communication-- relationships with the foundation formed via cyberspace.

Online journals and personal pages have attracted the attention of the newest breed of 'damn-the-man, screw-the-system' young people. Young people that aren't in the streets, pumping their fists in demand of equal rights or fair trade practices, but, rather, in the privacy and solitude of their homes, bucking the societal rules of meeting, greeting and interacting with others.

Our intrinsic yearning to be heard and understood has been met with a platform on which to do so. Or, at least, a platform on which to give it a good solid try. With the elevation of that platform comes the illusion of intimacy. And, as it turns out, intimacy was what we were all clamoring for in the first place.

Too bad we've barked up the wrong tree.

Of course, this need for human connectedness is not a new phenomenon. This generation is not the first generation of emotional fornicators. In fact, when man ate of the forbidden fruit, and changed his relationship with his God, humans began their scramble for intimacy.

Fast forward to present day: We are still, very much, in 'bed' together.

And, I am not off the hook on this one, I'm as guilty as the next person, maybe even more so-- but I have to stop and question the impact that the internet's bottomless 'wealth' of personal connections has on souls that are neglecting the One connection that we so desperately need.

It all begs the question- In this online quest for intimacy generated by a 'me' centered society, who's the god of my space?

Carried Away

I stood there once. On the edge of the ocean. Tasting salt water on my tongue and feeling the sun on my skin. I felt a yearning, then. Beside that great, endless sea. I felt as if a wave might come, and in one giant surge, swallow me whole. I stood there for a long time and tempted the ocean to carry me away. But, the ocean stopped each time before reaching me.

Salt lingered on my tongue long after I was gone from the waves, and long after I remembered the possibility of being carried away.

Why Should My Heart Not Dance?

I may be the only single woman who actually likes Valentine's Day. The cheesy little cards and chocolate hearts. The red and pink. The syrupy love songs. I like it ALL.

I should be properly cynical today given my current situation (you know...my 'single, almost 25, with no prospects of a mate' situation). But, I just can't seem to muster up that emotion. Not, today, at least (and, believe me, I've tried). But, I fell asleep last night watching 'Sabrina' and I woke up this morning with the sun on my face (which, incidentally, is my favorite way to wake up) and I just feel...content.

I've decided to publish a passage today from one of my very favorite books, Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis.

Yes. I've used this exact passage before in one of my very first posts, but that was eons ago, and this passage just happens to best voice my current sentiments.

Romance or not, today my heart dances. Why should it not?

"And my struggle was this. You may well believe that I had set out sad enough; I had come on a sad errand. Now, flung at me like frolic or insolence, there came as if it were a voice--no words--but if you made it into words it would be, "Why should my heart not dance?" It's the measure of my folly that my heart almost answered "Why not?" I had to tell myself over like a lesson the infinite reasons my heart had not to dance. My heart to dance? Mine, whose love was taken from me, I, who must never look for other love, the drudge of the King, the jailer of hateful Redival, perhaps to be murdered or turned out as a beggar when my father died--for who knew what Glome would do then? And yet, it was a lesson I could hardly keep in my mind. The sight of the huge world put mad ideas into me, as if I could wander away, wander forever, see strange and beautiful things, one after the other to the world's end. The freshness and wetness all about me made me feel that I had misjudged the world; it seemed kind, and laughing, as if its heart also danced..."

One Singular Sensation

Every Little Step She Takes

I got a phone call today from an old friend. She sounded happy and wanted to meet for lunch this week. Monica is one of my oldest friends. We met in the sixth grade after we'd both transferred to our small private academy from large public schools. We forged an instant friendship in the foreign world of prepubescent hormones and rampant emotions. She was allowed to shave her legs before I, and she kissed a boy during recess before I and she was cool- at least in my eyes.

We've drifted in and out of each others life over the years, but she is forever floating somewhere in my orbit, and I, in hers.

I watched her marry the man of her every dream about two years ago. She was radiant, as always, and I spent the night smiling and dancing and saying appropriate wedding-y things. And, tonight, I listened to her tell me about the very near arrival of her first son, which certainly explained the near giddiness I detected in her voice. A baby boy. A baby boy for my oldest friend.

I've had many similar conversations with old friends lately about pending weddings and new babies. And, I've received two phone calls this week, alone, from a friend that I haven't spoken to in six months. I'm almost certain she is going to tell me that she, too, is expecting her first child.

Weddings are great. New babies are incredible. I happen to like both, very much. And, I truly feel delighted when a friend joins the ranks of the wives and mothers. Both are titles that I feel very intrigued by, although, entirely separated from.

I'm afraid that I have landed smack-dab in the middle of singledom. And, it's a wonderful place to be at times. I certainly have no other mouth to feed but my own. I have no extra laundry to fold, or beds to make. It's just me, in an appropriately small abode, with neither animal nor plant life to tend to (my one fish and one house plant have both died in the last two weeks)

But, the thing about this place called Singledom is that everything feels temporary-- life is a constant transition. Next week I might, very well, be hanging out with people I barely know and the week after that I may be referring to them as my friends.

Everything is subject to change.

The question that I've been asking myself this week is (yes, this sounds completely disingenuous, but bear with me): What's it all about? What am I supposed to be accomplishing in my single life? Surely, God has more for me than Starbucks on Thursdays, and weekends packed with activity.

As a married lady, I would have a clearly defined role. As a mother, I would have a clearly defined role.

What's the role of a single, twenty-something, woman?

I have time. Much more time than my married friends. And, I surely have more time than my friends with babies. I have time that I seem to fill with copious amounts of activity, but how much of that activity is in service of others? If I'm honest, I'd admit that it's not nearly enough.

Maybe the role of the single woman is to be a servant. Maybe the call is to serve others in preparation for life's next role as a servant to a spouse and family.

And maybe, just maybe, if I redirected my purpose towards the service of others, single life wouldn't feel so...singular

Empty of Anthems

My pen is, once again, unimpressed. So, in an effort to keep things fresh, I am posting two older pieces of sorta silly prose. The first being the late night inner dialogues of a chronic insomniac, and the second being the casual observations of a consummate people watcher...

Silly Swirling Thoughts, A-Plenty

Swirling. My head is swirling in thoughts. Lightening bugs of thought. Zing! Zing! Thoughts like little electric bugs.

I grab at one thought and another jets by on his little thought Sedan.

Silly Swirling Thoughts, A-Plenty
Tried to Pen Them, But Had Many

Fleeting little devils. Those thoughts, I mean.

I try my best to pen them down. Pen the thought on the paper. Like a game. A kid's game involving blindfolds and spinning and icing-covered little faces of smiles and giggles.

Pen the thought on the paper. Blind-folded, I spin. I spin and write and hope it all comes out in sentences.

Silly Swirling Thoughts, A-Plenty
I Need to Sleep, It's Three Plus Twenty.

WHEEEEEEE!

Pen the thought on the paper. A fun little game.

Pretty On A Bench

A casual brush of hair off a smooth forehead. Absently twirled fingers in a dark mane of tumble and curl.

Twirl. Twirl. Brushed bangs, then twirl.

A girl with a smile of perfect white pillars, straight and proud, behind nervous lips of pink. The smile of youth. A beating heart and twirling hair. Twirl. Twirl.

Twirling fingers in dark, round curls. As she twirls and sits, I wonder:

Does she smile for hope?
Does she hope for love?

Sitting pretty on a bench. Lost in a daydream of life. A carefree, spinning life. Perhaps a future with a man. One man. Strong hands and deep voice. A mystery to her. A shadow of a mystery.

Twirl. Twirl. Brushed bangs, then twirl.

Twirling fingers in dark, round curls. As she twirls and sits, I wonder:

Will she twirl at 20?
Will she twirl at 40?
Will she twirl at 80?

A casual brush of hair off a smooth forehead. Absently twirled fingers in a dark mane of tumble and curl.

Twirl. Twirl. Brushed bangs, then twirl.

A young girl. A young, daydreaming, hair-twirling girl.

Sitting pretty on a bench.