I have thoughts today about the Facebook phenomenon. I am figuring it out, little by little, and it reminds me of that "six degrees of separation" idea...when you start figuring out who knows whom, who keeps friends, how intimately you want to know anyone: there are so many stories. For example, I had a lovely message from a former student (who was more of a friend than a student), Lia Nassim. It had been a long time, but it was heartwarming to be connected again, even in cyberspace. But there are always the underlying questions: why didn't we keep in touch before this? What has happened in your life? Are you interested in what has happened in mine? I suppose the implicit answers are always: because. Lots. Maybe.

If you really want to keep in touch, you do; and yet, there are always people who are in the periphery, who aren't actively part of your life, the "dailiness" of what goes on, where you are, what you are doing...and the dailiness of going out to dinner and the movies, curling up in front of the fire and drinking tea and telling stories. Through all the years since I left the Maxwell International Baha'i School, for example, there have been varying degrees of connection. Some friends have made considerable efforts to come and see us (probably the most surprising and one of the most delightful visits was from Luke Baumgartner, aka Ahkivgak Kiana, who took the bus through the long winter roads from Chicago, but who really connected with Bernie, niece Audrey, and our eldest daughter by doing so). There are those who have kept in touch by telephone and e-mail, some with frequency. There is little that makes a person feel more connected than answering the phone and finding that it is someone you thought had forgotten you, but there they are calling, just out of the blue. Jake did that once...told me he just felt like talking...and we were on the phone for hours. It deeply touched my heart. Several people have written often; I feel a part of their lives, and like they are a part of mine. In fact, I am going to make an effort to go to Montreal pretty soon to see Juliette and her family, give a hug to her new baby. I feel like a part of their extended family, not in the daily intimate sense, but in the way of connection, of genuine heart-felt inclusion, in sharing some of the process of this grand philosophical adventure we're all in together. And I still miss having tea with Tah.

Others, of course, become the friends you run into somewhere, barely recognize, say "Hello, how are you?" and don't wait for the answer. I find as I get older that I don't want to be one of those people: I don't have time for the social niceties of not-really-caring. If I ask how you are, I want it to be because I'm genuinely interested in knowing, not because it's expected. If I tell you I love you, it will be because I do. I find I can't even sign a letter with "love" unless I am actually feeling a little love...or maybe a lot. I take language, and life, and friends, way too seriously to be able to dismiss time and distance as though they were not meaningful. It's true, some time I'll see someone I've not seen in years, and they will be a part of my heart the way they always have been, kind of like a dormant virus. Well, maybe not a virus...just a part memorized by atomic structure. They're in my blood. They're part of me because once, we said hello, I love you, and meant it.

As for the rest, I am happy to know that there are people out there who sometimes think of me fondly, and likewise. But for real communication, that's not enough. I'm about the dailiness...about caring being truly a part of breathing, and knowing this. I am blessed with people in my life who have been like that since I was young enough to not even be able to remember. They are part of my heart in ways that mean something real to me, and no words of speculation about how, and when, we communicate, could do them justice. I don't need to find them on Facebook: they're already with me, and their spirit is part of mine, and vice versa.

I've just bought one of my favourite books to give to my new grand-niece, Willow. It's Robert Munsch's Love You Forever. I hope it's true; I hope I will. She's part of my blood, part of me, new to the world, yet in that eternally mysterious way, she has always been there, even before she was a twinkle in her daddy's eye. I held him when he was a baby, and sang to him, and now I will sing to her. And time being what it is, perhaps someday I'll dance at her wedding...whether on these rocky old knees, or from the unseen realm. Because we're connected. Because we are one, and I love her.