The kindness of strangers

In fairness, I don’t suppose we’re strangers. In fairness, I suppose if you have stumbled upon me here, in one way or another you know me as well as many in my day to day.

In fairness, just because we haven’t met, I don’t suppose we’re really strangers. I realize I take risks by putting myself out there, in this forum. I realize it seems brave, or honest or big. It may be some of those things, or none of those things, or all of those things. It may be foolhardy to expose these tender secrets to the prying eyes of people I don’t know.

People like you.

I started this space to talk about knitting, and then started to write poetry and vignettes. This space has become priceless to me, as a personal journal. As a place to purge, and to free flow and to commiserate. This place has become priceless to me to tell him the things I can’t quite bear to say face to face. A key to the diary. I am more eloquent here than I tend to be when I am just trying to see through the shimmering webs of pain. The spidery threads of past and not so distant past that glint in the sun, beautiful and horrible and sticky.

I don’t speak very well when I am wrapped in those. I do it better here. I have time to think and sometimes not to think. I can delve and dive and swim through the clearest or the murkiest of water, and do it with my own words, in my own time. In turn, you can read it, if you choose, or pass it off as emo kitty flutter, off on another Gothic rant and pass it by. But then, just then, right when I need it, a little miracle happens.

A bottle of olive oil, a book, a card, an email, an award….or this. All because you choose to be kind. Just when I feel overwhelmed with the work I have left to do, I am flooded with the lightness of the kindness of strangers.

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