Mine, all mine.

In the wake of the losses of some truly wonderful icons, I am thinking a lot about celebrity... the immense reward of popularity and success that comes at such a high price. Most of these people are given a life many of us can scarcely imagine, but they are also living that life under a microscope.... a life where the details and minutiae of their day are public knowledge. It is a life where all their mistakes and secrets and comings and goings are discussed, analyzed, deconstructed, and judged. I would never ever want to be famous. I would never want to open the windows of my world and let the little things that make up my days be blown about on whatever breeze may come.

There are many people who think about privacy differently than I do. I have never understood people who clean out their purse or wallet in public. They find any flat surface and sort through their belongings right there in front of everyone. Trash, gum wrappers, phone numbers from bars, endless receipts, atm printouts... all splayed there for the world to see. There was a phase there for a while where clear plastic purses and backpacks were considered fashionable. I never understood that either. It's the same with people who talk on their cell phones in a crowd. Personal business, business business, kids, friends, gossip, romance... just right out there for everyone to hear. I don't know why all this transparency bugs me, but as far as I can remember it's been that way. When I was younger, I was driving home one night and came upon an automobile accident that had just happened. A car had obviously lost control and had driven into the corner wall of a building. What struck me was that the scene was covered in personal belongings. This person's life had been ejected from the car right along with them and was strewn all over the sidewalk and the road. Hundreds of papers of all shapes and sizes were littered like a papier mache project everywhere you looked, and they shifted and fluttered and rearranged themselves in the air as they caught the draft of the cars driving by. Clothes, books, empty fast food cups... this person's life was just littered around them. I cried so hard I had to pull over a few blocks down the road. They'd never be able to put all that back together the same way again. They'd be taken away in the ambulance and some stranger would sift through it all and get to determine what was worth keeping. Any privacy those belongings held were secret no more. I can still feel the devastating intrusion I felt when I considered how suddenly your life can become an open book. I spend a lot of time away from home, and almost every time I leave my house I find myself looking back to see what someone would find should I never come home. What would they think of my magnet collection or the contents of my files? What would they deduce from my diary entries or my 'Jeff Box' that's full of movie ticket stubs and pressed wildflowers picked on long walks... silly mementoes that would possibly mean nothing to anyone but me and him? What would they think about the way I've organized my shoes or my spice cabinet? Is there a wayward sock under my sofa? How would someone interpret the cleaning up and sorting through of my life?

I may never know why it bothers me so. I don't really have any big secrets. I'd carried one secret with me throughout my life, and when I finally shared it, I realized it was simply a tiny morsel of regret I'd been so afraid to reveal that it had grown into something tangible and frightening. It was a sheep in wolves clothing. Still, it was nothing that could be discovered under my sofa or in a plastic backpack or ever be littered across an intersection. I am not afraid of what people will find if they look. I am just comforted by the idea that what's personal and private can be kept that way. I am warmed by thoughts that can be held inside forever, or can be revealed only to someone with whom you know they will be safe. I am a deep well of secrets that have been shared with me, and of private moments I will never unearth. I like it that way. I'd never want to be famous, or have people care where I go or what I do. I just want my simple life... my collection of thoughts and feelings that belong only to me, and of whispers in the dark and private moments shared... These are the contents of a life that would never mean anything to a stranger, but mean everything to me.