Just Another Message in a Bottle - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Message: (Yes, In A Bottle!)

I was walking at the shoreline
plucking pebbles from the beach
when I saw a bottle bobbing
in the waves just out of reach,
so I waded to retrieve it
then removed the scroll inside -
read the message in confusion;
understanding was denied.
When I brought it to my father
hoping he would comprehend
all the numbers written on it
he said, "It appears our friend
sent coordinates to show us
where he cast this from his boat
and was curious to find out
just how far that it might float."

Sent a note with my location
so the sender could learn more
and could chart the distance traveled
before bottle washed to shore.
Never thought much more about it
'til the day I wrote this tale,
now I contemplate the message
and how far it had to sail.

Life's a message in a bottle,
it's a lesson in a book;
life is out there all around you
if you'll only take a look.
Life's the message we are sending
and the one that is returned,
each experience we're given
brings another lesson learned.

It was not what I expected -
no dramatic SOS.
I was kind of disappointed
as a child I must confess.
Now I've grown to understand the
way humanity behaves,
cryptic notes are sent in bottles
to be carried by the waves.
When my loneliness compels me
I reach out to the unknown -
I am living, breathing, moving -
tell me I am not alone.
My coordinates keep changing,
but I'll tell you where I've been,
then perhaps you'll come exploring
and you'll see what I have seen.

I'm the author stuffing bottles
and the reader who replies,
sending data to the unknown
when the notion might arise.
I'm invested in connecting
with the another who discerns
what intentions forged the message
by the feedback he returns.

Life's a message in a bottle
we don't always understand
and the lessons we are learning
aren't the ones that we had planned.
We are scrolls rolled up in bottles
then cast out upon a wave -
bound for diverse destinations
from the womb until the grave.

By Sharon Flood Kasenberg  (March 2008)

Many years ago I did find a message in a cigar tin on the shores of Lake Superior, and like the child in my poem brought the note to my father to decipher.  Then I sent off a short note to the enclosed address as requested. Needless to say I never got a reply. I can only surmise that the sender got as much information as he'd requested - he learned how far his message went, and didn't really care about who had received it.

Our lives are filled with bottled missives - cryptic messages sent out into cyberspace, by ourselves and others, some hard to decipher. Facebook appeals to the Drama Queen in each of us. Who hasn't sent out an "I feel crappy today and I want the whole world to know it!" status - or one that is deliberately obscure - a baited hook waiting for sympathetic takers. Often we are motivated solely by our own need for attention. We don't care who responds, as long as somebody does. Like the mariner who bottles a message up and casts it overboard, we are primarily concerned with "how far" the message will go, how may people will hit the "like" button or respond. Why is that?

Here's my theory:
We are lonely.

Social media allows us to pretend we're not. (See how many people responded? I'm no loser!) But truthfully, in an age where many people care more about the number of their Facebook friends than having meaningful conversations with any of them - and where many spend more time fiddling with their cell phones than attending to those they're with - we are all losers.

Sting touched on a very similar theme in his song Message in a Bottle.

"Just a castaway
an island lost at sea
Another lonely day
with no one here but me."

Later in the song, the conclusion is made that he's "not alone in being alone - a hundred billion castaways, looking for a home."

I live a fairly insular life. I like my days to be quietly spent enjoying my solitary pursuits - reading, writing, gardening, baking; taking long walks. But I experience moments of poignant clarity when I realize how much more gratifying my life would be if I invited more friends over to enjoy my garden, or shared more home-made cookies with this Oreo-laden world. I should be showing someone else the beautiful trail I just explored, or discussing the latest book I loved with some other avid reader. Like the rest of humanity I get far too caught up in my own "busy-ness". Sometimes weeks go by before I realize I haven't had an outing, or more shocking still, a conversation, with anyone other than my spouse, my kids or my mother in quite a while.

When struck by this realization I feel lonely. It's partly my own fault. I'm reserved and a bit socially awkward. Getting to know new people doesn't come easily, thus it's easier to let the other person ask  questions. As uncomfortable as it makes me to admit it, I know that this behavior might make me seem disinterested in others when in fact I'm usually quite curious. Unfamiliar social territory has been made more difficult to navigate by the fact that I often become careless about interacting with my siblings and closest friends. They are busier than I am and probably don't have time to talk or get together, is what I tell myself to excuse my failure to do my share of reaching out.

The part that I'm not responsible for is purely circumstantial. I've moved around, and those who have never moved to another city simply don't realize how difficult it is to establish new friendships in middle age.  My kids are grown, so I have no involvement with their friends' parents at this stage of life. The other factor is that while I'm not alone in being alone, I think I might be in the minority when it comes to admitting that I'm lonely at times.

A lot of people see their mobile devices as a great source of connection. I don't. (Which is why I seldom carry my cell phone - but that's a whole other post.) Even telephone conversations require too much effort for most, and have been substituted with a series of text massages. We are a socially lazy generation - too easily lured into the social media trap where we have limited and mostly banal interactions with the masses instead of genuine (face to face!) interactions with people we actually know and claim to care about.

Some protest too strenuously that their lives are filled with socializing. They'll tell you that they eat lunch with "friends" every work day when in fact they merely share lunch with co-workers, which isn't the same at all. Or they'll tell you all about some church assignment or club they belong to that essentially forces them to sit in meetings and on committees with those whose company they'll enjoy for the period of time that they share common responsibilities. This kind of enforced interaction is no substitute for honest-to-goodness "come over to my house and hang out" sociability.

I am one of those castaways looking for a home, a community. That's why I make repeated efforts to tell the world how I feel, where I am and where I hope to go. But unlike a true narcissist, I hold out hope that I'll get responses and make connections. Every post is another message, and my computer is the vessel I use to send it out on the waves - I still believe that the media, in and of itself, is not the message.

"I am living, breathing, moving - tell me I am not alone."

Recently I had a Facebook friend announce that he would soon be deactivating his account. He said that while he enjoyed his online interactions, he wanted more experiences and less entertainment. I can relate to his sentiments. I've often wondered if I sent out an invitation for a night of "real time face time" at my home to forty or fifty people who I know well (or would like to get to know better), how many would take me up on the offer? How many would fore-go a night of texting with the many or scrolling their news feed in favor of mingling with the few? How many would be willing to sever their cell phone connection for an hour or two - or better yet leave their phone at home? (Those would be the rules - no mobile devices - after all I do have a land line in case of emergencies.)

Are you one of the hundred billion bottles looking for a home? Are you ready to send out an SOS?

I think I am.