I hand over my phone.

Click click.
She starts reading.
She seems interested.
“I will continue later.”

Suddenly, I’m perplexed. R was hooked up reading my post. Why such an abrupt stop? I was assuming the worst-case scenario. I may have written something perceived as crude. Or something pale, and she was providing an excuse to stop.

Maybe it could have been the situation. There were other people; she might have thought reading was inappropriate then. Curious, I asked her: “Why later? You don’t like it?”. It’s a maternal instinct authors feel for their work.

She answered, “I’m going to make myself a sobbing mess.” The answer came out of the blue. It was unforeseen, but It was a genuinely felt reply. I had no way of doubting her feelings. It blew me away. I stood speechless. Strong emotions were building up while she was reading Happiness and Granted Things.

Human

She quit reading before the growing knot in her stomach could embarrass her. It’s hard to be honest with your feelings in front of others. It may feel vulnerable. Some boldness on her side.

Later, she revealed why the stomach knot. She confessed to me she had experiences similar to mine. The post brought up memories.

Emotions are peculiarly human in a way that transcends understanding, like studying colors. Even when we understand electromagnetic radiation, we don’t feel colors less. Emotions are intuitive, and we are all capable of feeling them. It’s wonderful when others perceive the same feelings I intended to write. This will forever amaze me.

It’s impressive in a manner I find difficult to articulate. It’s incredibly human, and it makes me feel connected to others—a real connection. The same connection I aim to achieve with the readers.

It’s also powerful. But where does this power capacity come from? I believe it resides in the translation from feelings to words and then again from words to feelings. The essence of something deep and personal, like feelings and emotions, doesn’t lose meaning during the double translation. From my head to the mind of somebody else. Perhaps in their hearth.

I hope. That’s the magic that pushes me to keep writing.