How much is too much?

Sometimes, I am overcome when lost in the blogdom, at the brave, honest cry of somebody's life. There on the shimmering screen are all their fears and dreams; the wet, rude torn wide open truth of who they are, for me to see.

I have friends who have not opened up to me in that way.

Close friends.

And so, I am moved at the searing beauty of these strangers: of their vulnerability. I am swept up by their stories and forced to reconcile them with my own truths, even as I sit there swallowing theirs.

Disclosure is a strange beast.

I have not yet tamed it, domesticated it. I am not even sure of inviting it in. But. I know it is out there, peering through the windows of my home. Looking to be heard.

Once I open my mouth, or press my pen against a blank page, or lean my head against the cold pane of the mind's window, then how will I know where to stop. And when?

And who should be privy to all that.

Are some of our words meant to stay hidden and wary, revealing themselves only to those we love or trust or understand? And maybe some of those words might even need burial, or they will stay fresh, unearthed and moist. Keeping us awake at night and bothering the children.

Maybe, this comes with getting. Older.

Maybe, something pulls us back from all those words. Eventually. Restoring our trust in stillness. In feeling contained, and permitted to move. Forward. Even in a group where others wish to unburden themselves, I will choose to listen. And be still.

Saving my breath. My words.

For a place in which they might find the right tilled soil, in which to grow.