Deeper connections
Or how, when you close off a surface channel, something unexpected can happen.
Today is my birthday. No, I’m not looking for salutations (nor indeed commiserations; I’ve had a good few of the blighters).
I knew today was going to be quite full-on. Half a day at work, then heading a few hours south-west for a couple of days, to do a couple of Family Closure Things. Specifically, throwing the last of my mother’s ashes over a cliff tomorrow. Not harsh; she would be squealing with delight at the adventure. Hence my choice of not only wording but also locations. Never mind being scattered to the four winds; by the time I’m done, she’ll be scattered to a good twenty of ‘em, no doubt causing posthumous havoc in every last one.
Usually, if you’re one of the few hanging onto a Facebook account, a birthday is a day of pleasant reflections thanks to the people who see the notification and take a couple of seconds to wish you well. But I knew I wasn’t going to be able to acknowledge them in a timely fashion this year.
So a little while back, I deactivated the option for others to post on your timeline. In a broader sense, it’s probably part of a steady move away from social platforms.
And something kind of remarkable happened.
I’d guessed that a few people would message me privately, when the option wasn’t there for a timeline salutation.
Just not quite how many. And for those also on this subscriber list who did so, yes, that’s you, and thank you!
But that’s not the ultimate discovery. For those who messaged, I did reply. And on a few of those messages, a conversation started, often with people I haven’t had cause to chat to for a while, sometimes years.
As a result, I’m now going to be joined tomorrow by a long term am-dram friend of Mum’s, someone who was also a great friend of mine back in the day. And on the way back at the weekend, I’ll be dropping in to see a lovely former university colleague I haven’t seen in years.
For now though, I’m basking in the warmth of a day of deeper connections, here in my room in a Cornish pub. Yes, that’s the tail end of a pint on my bedside table. No, the spaniel is not as destitute as her expression suggests; she’s blagged pretty much half a jarful of dog treats from the bar, via various people who aren’t immune to The Spaniel Stare.
