secrets



I don't suppose there is anywhere left in the world where it is still Wednesday?
This post is part of a link which I found on rayfamily's blog here, but which actually originated with Jillsy Girl

I love the idea of linking blogs that are exploring the same things, and the serendipitous connections that occur. And I love Seal in this video.

When it comes to secrets, the thing I love most is when a really good, happy secret belongs just to me. I love to hug it close, resisting the bursting urge to tell until I just can't take it any more. And then it is like unwrapping a present... hearing my words and watching as the person I am telling takes in what I am saying. I love seeing how their face changes, through disbelief (even suspicion) to delight and joy.

That's for the good ones...
Not much fun when the secret is something dire. When the telling of it will be one of those heart-heavy moments. When hearing my voice is like watching the world change in an instant, and knowing that from this moment nothing will ever be the same again.

Comments

Walker said…
Hi, I'm a regular Jillsy follower. Love your take on secrets. I find it interesting that you focus on good secrets, as we tend to think of them as bad. Your perspective gives us a chance to reframe the word.
27 January 2011 at 15:19
Anonymous said…
Ditto on Walker's comment! You are so correct that many secrets are also good ones that will delight the recipient when exposed. My hubby has told me several times he would love to surprise me with something, but for one reason or another the secret comes out too early. Thanks for joining in this week and giving us your perspective!
27 January 2011 at 16:15
Anonymous said…
Oh..and one more thing ~ don't worry about it not being Wednesday. The Blog Hop starts on Wednesday, but lasts all week!
27 January 2011 at 16:17
Anonymous said…
Ditto W and J - secrets can be good, too, and I love your description of hugging it close and then unwrapping it as a gift. My husband loves to surprise me with gifts or actions, and I know he loves hugging those secrets and then seeing my reaction to them.
27 January 2011 at 17:03
Lynne said…
@ Walker and Barbara... thanks for reading
and Jillsy, thanks for sparking the conversation.
I am pretty slack at keeping my blog updated so it is good to have a spark to get it going!
27 January 2011 at 17:10
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

the writer formerly known as...

Twenty years after I was born a Brooks, I became a Wilson in one of those happy-ever-after fantasies that didn't quite work out the way I had planned. But Wilson was a nice name, and eminently preferable to Brooks (which in Afrikaans means underpants or knickers and led to horrible teasing at school) and I quite enjoyed it. It was one of those anonymous names that everyone could spell and I liked the fact that it was totally normal at first look, but had a secret history. The great grandfather of the Mr Wilson I married had emigrated from somewhere near Moscow to the US and like so many others with unpronouncable or "difficult" names (I think it was Tobinofsky) he was given another one. One of the legends is that Wilson was chosen from the phone book, another is that he particularly admired a Wilson (couldn't have been Harold). So, for the next 25 years or so, I built my name and reputation as the journalist Lynne Wilson ... until I met and married my new happy-ever-a
Read more

Like faded flowers, thrown away: Steve Biko and the Boer women

Image
A Boer woman with her dead child, the last of her children to die, photographed by Emily Hobhouse The women are wonderful. They cry very little and never complain. The very magnitude of their sufferings, their indignities, loss and anxiety seems to lift them beyond tears… only when it cuts afresh at them through their children do their feelings flash out. Some people in town still assert that the Camp is a haven of bliss. I was at the camp to-day, and just in one little corner this is the sort of thing I found – The nurse, underfed and overworked, just sinking on to her bed, hardly able to hold herself up, after coping with some thirty typhoid and other patients, with only the untrained help of two Boer girls–cooking as well as nursing to do herself. Next tent, a six months’ baby gasping its life out on is mother’s knee. Two or three others drooping sick in that tent. Next, a girl of twenty-one lay dying on a stretcher. The father, a big, gentle Boer kneeling beside her; while,
Read more

mind the gap

I'm suffering from an excess of velleity. Velleity is volition at its weakest. It's a mere wish or inclination, without any accompanying effort. My velleity is fed by an overactive imagination... I can see in my mind's eye exactly what my dream garden looks like, for example. So when I am outside, I'm imagining a tree there, a shrub here, a winding path and a bank of flowers. so the lack of all those things and the lack of effort on my part to make them happen don't worry me so much. It certainly makes things easier when you are living with a very large garden during our excessively hot and dry summers. I'd write more... but what can I say? Velleity strikes again.
Read more