Likes, Hearts, and Comment Bubbles: the Value of Connections

Social media provides wonderful opportunity for connections. I will make clear how I feel about these connections: sacred. I value relationships, choose to engage in some, and judge to what extent I can be involved in others.

Whatever my personal engagement, I usually wonder what the responders to my posts are like or how they feel at the time they hit the thumbs-up like, the little heart, or the comment bubble. Are they happy? Morose? Confused? Loved? Fun? Funny? Fulfilled?

For those few seconds of response, we are connected. I don’t take that lightly. I’ve always valued connections , no matter how brief. I will say that I usually get to know people really fast, and it’s not because I’m nosey or gabby. People just sense that they can talk to me, that I value them, and that I don’t mind listening to them.

Because I sense the energy of others and appreciate them, I don’t necessarily have to spend personal time with them to feel their personalities. I suppose in some ways I’m talking about empathy. For instance, when I am at a show or concert and I’ve just witnessed a great performance that evokes a standing ovation, my eyes water up and a tear or two might trickle down my cheek. When I was younger, I felt stupid because I wasn’t sad, and the normal response is not to have tears. I know because I look around and others aren’t usually crying, but I can’t help it. Same way when really amazing music is pulsing through me. I suppose I’ve learned Self and gained enough maturity that I don’t care anymore, so I don’t try to hide it. Such connections just cause me to respond that way.

So, it’s no big puzzle that I wonder what people who respond to my posts are feeling. If you read this and I respond to things you put up on social, know that whatever you shared made a connection with me, meant something to me.

​Ultimately, I prize these ethereal, although ephemeral, connections, and I muse about such things all the time. The following poem is a result of such wonderment.

Sunglasses of a Paisley Persuasion
I wonder if little Annie
Lost, discarded, or destroyed
The sunglasses — the remnant
frames looking up at me puzzled --
no trace of lenses and arms.
I wonder if little Annie cried,
Cried when she realized that her little sunglasses were gone,
Never to be seen again --
The brightly-colored paisley-patterned frames with
Fanciful swirls of blue, yellow, and green with just a
Splash of orange — now smushed
On the parking lot asphalt adjacent to the soccer fields.
The diminutive size says that Annie must have been there with
Mom and maybe Dad to bring Brother or maybe Sister
To a game or maybe practice.
Was Annie tired with her curly-haired head slumped over Mom’s or Dad’s shoulder,
And did the cute little sunglasses slip unnoticed off of her sleepy brown eyes
On the bright, mild, and windy early evening?
Or, did she tire and throw a little tantrum,
The paisley frames flung without thought or care?
Victim or perpetrator, little Annie?
It matters little, really, because either way
Annie lives on,
I live on,
We live on.
But I truly would like to have been there,
Would like to have retrieved that cute little pair
Of paisley sunglasses,
Would like to have seen a bright smile light up her sleepy eyes.
Michael DePung
Connections — they bring me a lot of joy!

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