Only when the sense of the pain of others begins does man begin.
I sat down this afternoon to write a post titled “Dinner with Nietzsche”. I planned on weaving philosophy and wit into a humorous tale about my attempt to convince my daughters to finish their parmesan rice last night for dinner by reading to them from Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil. “When you’re done eating, I’ll quit reading!” I told them, and then droned on and on over their deafening squeals of protest. It would have been a great post . . .
But I decided to clear out my Reader first.
I don’t know this woman. And, unfortunately, unless something truly miraculous happens, I’ll never have the chance to interact with her, to exchange emails with her or read any new updates about her life, about motherhood, about being a survivor.
And she’ll never be a Tweaker. I’ll never see her name pop up in my comments, offering her own unique hue of wisdom and compassion.
Though told by the author of the most recent post that Lisa is heavily sedated and will probably never get to read the comments left by her readers, I left one anyway . . .
I am new here. Never read this blog before. But a fellow blogger mentioned this situation today, and I wanted to drop in and leave a note. She’ll never see it, but that’s ok; it’s not for her. It’s for all of you, the ones who have taken the time to show that you care by being here for her, our fellow blogger.
This is the soul of what we do. For some, it’s about numbers. A paycheck. A zillion hits. But for others, it’s about the friends we make and the impact we have on one another. During the times when I’ve been down, and posted about it, it never fails that someone leaves a comment and lifts me up. I cherish the thoughts, the words, the wind it all puts in my sails.
This is why we are here. And why I keep doing it.
Peace to you, the friend I never met. Your star is shining, and we’ll keep it alive . . .
You, dear Tweaker, are cherished more than I’ll ever be able to completely articulate. In so many ways, small and large, you move me. I write for me, share it with my little corner of Blogland, and you swing by on your way to wherever for a quick chat. To say hello. To encourage me. To set me straight. To interact. And for each of you – even the ones who never say anything at all – I am grateful. You probably get sick of hearing me say it. But I mean it. Every time . . .