Vachon Imagined

WordPress and I are in a long-term relationship.

She lets me write and never tells me I think too much, overanalyze too much, or ask too many questions. She never rolls her eyes when I’ve gone from writing about consciousness to researching quantum physics, dog sweaters, or whether brown shoes actually go with a black handbag.

For her, I’m just the right amount of curious.

The right amount of angry.

The right amount of human.

The right amount of crazy.

Even when I’m honestly a bit too much for myself.

She never asks me to tone it down or be less intense. She simply waits while I wander down another rabbit trail, convinced that eventually I’ll come back with something worth saying.

And I usually do.

One of my favorite things is meeting people I’ll probably never meet in person.

A woman in another country writes about raising chickens. Someone shares photographs of places I may never visit. Another person introduces me to an idea, a book, a piece of history, or a subject I never knew existed.

And I get genuinely excited.

I love leaving a simple like, offering a few words of encouragement, or writing, “Thank you. I had never heard of that before.”

For a brief moment, complete strangers become neighbors. We borrow a little of each other’s curiosity. We remind each other that the world is much bigger than our own small corner of it.

One thing I appreciate about this space is that I don’t have to agree with everyone to appreciate them.

I don’t argue. Almost never.

Not because I don’t have opinions, I have plenty, but because I don’t believe most arguments actually change people. They usually just create a place where two people are waiting for their turn to defend themselves.

If I read something I don’t entirely agree with, I keep moving, or I offer my perspective as a possibility, not a challenge.

A thought, not a battle.

A revelation, not an argument.

Because people rarely change because they were defeated in a conversation. They change because something they encountered opened a door inside of them.

If something I write helps someone see differently, wonderful.

If it doesn’t, that is okay too.

We are all walking through life carrying different experiences, different histories, and different understandings. Curiosity allows us to meet each other without needing to conquer each other.

People often talk about social media and online platforms as though they’re evil. I understand why. They can absolutely become addictive. I’m living proof. I can sit at my desk for hours writing, reading, and following one idea into another. I forget to eat. I ignore the laundry. Sometimes I don’t even want to get up to use the bathroom because I’m so immersed in what I’m learning.

Curiosity is a funny thing.

It doesn’t know when to quit.

But it does know when something matters more.

When my son comes home from school and wants to tell me every detail of his day with the enthusiasm, seriousness, and wonder that only a ten-year-old boy can bring, I close the laptop.

And I listen.

Really listen.

Because no article, no essay, no fascinating rabbit hole is more important than the person standing in front of me.

Then, after he’s been heard, after we’ve laughed, after life settles back into its ordinary rhythm, I open the laptop again.

WordPress doesn’t mind.

She never keeps score.

She never tells me I disappeared too long.

She’s simply there, waiting for me to pick up the conversation where we left off.

Maybe that’s why we’ve lasted so long.

She accepts me exactly as I am.

And she quietly reminds me that every day, all over the world, there are fascinating people I’ve never met, each carrying a piece of the story I haven’t heard yet.