Fine lines

A really interesting article has had some publicity on Facebook lately, and some of you may have seen it. More than one of my friends had a read and shared it round their own friends. I am delighted they care enough, and are passionate enough, about the topic to spread the word.

The article was written by Susan Silk and Barry Goldman for the LA Times. Susan has recently created something called Ring Theory, to help us understand how best to support those going through a crisis. The essence is this: The person suffering most in the crisis is at the centre of the ring, and those closest to them are in the closest rings beside them. The less you know the person at the centre, the further out you are in the rings. If you are struggling with what is happening, and need to "kvetch and complain and whine and moan and curse the heavens and say, "Life is unfair"" you can only do this to people in rings further out than you. Don't dump it on the people who are in smaller rings and having a tougher time than you are. Dump it on the people further out, and provide only comfort to those further in.

Ring Theory by Susan Silk

I liked this as I read it, and it makes great sense. I intended to share it with my Facebook friends. And then I thought about me.

A while back I got a hug from a friend  - a close friend of mine and close friend of Kent's. I had a tear or two, and then I found myself asking "do you miss him?" You see, noone really tells me they do. Noone tells me there is a huge hole in their life now he is gone, or that they cry about him, or that they think about him or that they get mad about him dying or.. anything. I suppose noone does because it is worse for me. My friends are kind and generous and sensitive and they want to take care of me. Doing any of the above would feel like dumping on me. But actually I would like to hear these things. The idea or impression that everyone else in this world has adjusted to Kent's death or moved on is a dreadful one. And no doubt an incorrect one. But I just never hear it. And generally that means he doesn't get talked about at all.

I don't need people to dump on me. But I need people to mourn with me. It may be a fine line, and some may wobble around the line. But that's OK with me, especially if we're crying together, instead of alone.

A place in my heart

I was buying a card today when I saw another that I had to buy. It strikes me as being about new love, and mine is an old (yet current) love, but it works for me still - more so perhaps. The idea of there always being a place in my heart that is Kent, that is us, is one I have thought of often.
Let it be said!:

You have found a place in my heart, and so that place is yours.
I will fly your flag, speak your language, and honour you with festive parades forever.


In the bottom corner of the card in teeny, tiny writing is another statement that adds unnecessary cheesiness, "My heart has encountered so much sweet peace I might never be the same again." Oh gosh. My heart has encountered so much anguish that I know I will never be the same again.

Sweet peace - such a beautiful phrase that is so foreign to me it's as far away as the Heavens.