Lost and Found by Ginny L. Yttrup Page A

www.iluminar.me. Iluminar —Spanish for illuminate—in deference to my mother who was the first to cast light into my world. I began writing the blog while fighting the infection following my surgery—while fighting the sense of shame and stupidity suffocating my soul. During those months, I was realizing, for the first time, the hold Brigitte has on me—the hold I've allowed. The surgery, once I was willing to admit it to myself, was done to please her. Yet, it didn't please. It— I —failed.
    Miserably.
    For the first time, I wondered what lengths I'd go to, to please her? In a sense, I'd sold my body. Would I sell my soul as well?
    As the bacterial infection raged in my body, an emotional infection raged in my soul. The blog became an outlet for the infection—a place where the poison could drain.
    I was desperate to begin understanding why I'd allowed Brigitte such power in my life. Why I'd surrendered my life. My life! To anyone other than God. For the first time, in the blog entries, I processed thoughts, feelings, and the fractures of self.
    And then, I sent the entries into oblivion—into the sphere of the unknown—the cosmic World Wide Web, where no one would know me. Where I could just be. Where I could become. Somehow recording the entries in a journal wasn't enough.
    I needed, wanted, longed, to be heard.
    There was solace in the words I typed on the screen. They were real. I wrote my truth. My heart. My soul. I began a dialogue with God. Unabashed and raw. I opened my wounded body and soul to Him. And to a cloud of unknown witnesses.
    I read articles and a book on blogging, I registered the blog with Technorati and a few other search engines that index blogs, I linked the blog with social networking pages I set up and like ants, followers came. First one, then a few, then hoards. I began receiving comment after comment. And with the comments came conversations.
    I found a place where I had a voice.
    Where I was heard.
    Where I was accepted.
    A place where I could be real, unencumbered by roles, or the judgments of those who think they know me. Or, at least, it's become a place where the anonymous author of www.iluminar.me can be real.
    Ironic.
    It's all I'm ready for. I'm known as [email protected]. That's enough.
    Still standing in the entry, watching the light dance, I bend and slip off my shoes. I cross the marbled entry, hoping to avoid detection by the household staff—Brigitte's eyes and ears. I tiptoe up the stairs, down the hallway, and into our suite where I inch the door closed, turning the handle so it doesn't click. Once it's closed, I lean my back against it and let out a sigh.
    I head to the alcove, drop my shoes by my desk, and sit down and open my laptop. As it loads, I think again about Matthew, and as I do, I'm aware of the right side of my face rising to meet the left. The smile comes as I recall the surge within when Skye introduced us. Matthew shook my hand, but it was my soul that was shaken. Something inside me came alive.
    What did I feel? I think of Matthew's stature—about Gerard's height, I'd guess—maybe 6'2", maybe a bit taller—and in good physical shape, as though he's a runner or a hiker. His weathered good looks speak of time spent in the elements. His dark hair is a mass of curls. And the intensity of his gray eyes startle, until they soften with a smile.
    But it isn't his looks that stir me. It's something beneath the surface—the core of who he is. He's goofy, but there's more there. I shake my head. I don't even know him. I pick up a pen from my desk and twirl it in my fingers. Yet, it's like he said—it's as if we do know one another. As if we've always known one another. It was as if our souls recognized one another in some way.
    Odd.
    I trust Skye's intuition and look forward to whatever God has in store with Matthew.
    Before leaving the cathedral this afternoon, I scheduled an appointment next week to explore