12.28.2012

The Secret Meanings of Mundane Tweets


It's the first morning that some Christmas celebration will *NOT* define our family's day so in the early dawn hours I am the only one awake.

When I arrive in the kitchen to collect the coffee, the room is bathed in this remarkable blue light that shines in from the snow-covered world outside the wide window.  But I am much more blown away by the smell of dark roasted coffee, brewed boldly and filling this room.  It is a gorgeous smell.  A melodic smell.  A delicious smell.

And my first impulse is to tweet about it or craft a facebook status remarking on it, but then the part of my brain that questions EVERY impulse I ever have argues:  But aren't those the kinds of banal and personal experiential tweets that some social media haters love to hate on?  And the part of me with the impulse says:  yes.  you're right.  Nevermind that tweeting impulse.

But the part of me who's in therapy asks:  what's the positive intention in that impulse?

And I realize that I'm overcome by beauty and I want to share it.

And then I realized that it really wasn't a great facebook update or tweet because there are about five people who I know would love this sensual experience as much as I do and we would love, together, to sit in this smell and in this light and hold handmade coffee mugs close to our noses and whisper about whatever until the world woke up.

But then I realized that this other realization is probably good equipment to communicate more broadly.   If we can recognize that positive intention in those status updates that crowd our feed, we'll have the opportunity to become more compassionate and empathic readers, listeners and humans.

All of the statuses that annoy us with their mundane-ness, should be read with the qualifier:

I was overwhelmed by this feeling (good or bad) and wanted, needed, to share it with humans who I have connected with.  Because when I'm overwhelmed by feelings, I know that we can manage them better than I can.

If I could offer you one of the cups of this pot of coffee right now, I would.  The wooden-wicked candle that Lynn gave me for Christmas is whispering heat and scent and the light is still blue, though turning white.  It would be nice to talk.  To connect.

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