Facebook Adventures

My Facebook password is an obscenity, so there’s a powerful hint about my bad attitude toward internet social networking. Partly, I’ll admit, I’m just being my usual hermity non-conformist self. On another level, I don’t like how stupid I feel, trying to understand the lingo and the layout. What’s a notification? Why do things come and go? Really, who sees what? You think you know, but you don’t. I’m glad that I’ve figured out how to link my blogs there, and I’m glad for friends who comment, either on riverchildbooks.com, or on the Face-pages. (It’s not a Book.)

I’ve been on the Face-pages about six years now, and had some interesting adventures. Found people I thought I’d never hear of again, and mostly wasn’t surprised to learn the states they’d settled into. I tried to find other old friends and lovers, but turns out I’ve known too many people with names like Fred Jones or Karen Brown. Sorting through the thousands of matching names reminds me of why I became Turtle.

Early on, in the search phase, I had a couple of heartbreaks which have kept me from ever jumping in again without great caution. First I found, right in town, a dear lost woman friend, and rejoiced at being able to contact her. I emailed her, eager for a sit-down coffee meeting. She said she was overwhelmed, already had too many crazy people in her life, and would rather not see me. That rejection was a shock. I’m not that crazy! I wallowed in my self-pity, and tried unsuccessfully to convince myself I was just being over-sensitive. The next day, without really trying, I discovered my teenage husband, from forty years ago. He looked fine and happy. We exchanged some hellos. No big deal. And yet, I felt a strange uncontrollable elation, a giddy happiness that was a seesaw with my horrid girlfriend rejection pain. The emotional extremes were bewildering. The roller-coaster felt loony-bin crazy, certifiable.

As I often do, I talked to myself, working through this heart twist. Why was I so thrilled to find my old hubby? I hadn’t thought of him in years; that candle had gone out, peacefully, long ago. He was, I told myself, analyzing this situation, as good as dead to me. Oh, yes, of course. Dead husbands. This happened during that first year of widowhood, when everything was irrational. My poor little lizard brain made a dangerous leap. If that husband, as good as dead, could magically be alive, Will must be too! Someplace, alive! Ever since that particular mirage, and the ensuing grief tsunami, I’ve nursed my little grudge. I can’t bring myself to trust Face-page connecting.

After I stopped looking for people, friends from my college, peace, women spirit days began showing up. I treasure all of you who are in that face-sphere of connection. I read your news. You#1 married; you#2 have grandchildren; you#3 have moved back to my town! I hope we can have coffee. Face to face.

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