An Open Heart

This is a very personal post about Dai Barnes, who died last month. This is an attempt to write about more complex thoughts … about what knowing someone as a whole can be like – and what death of that person does to that knowledge.

Since the death of my friend, I have found myself in the curious position of helping others to mourn and remember, along with Amy Burvall and Doug Belshaw, who have shared this role with me, and to whom I am in debt. 

There are so many others I should mention here; not least his family –  words and actions that should be referenced; and I know some of what I want to say is said better by others and I should quote them.

But I won’t. Grief is a selfish experience, so I am not going to apologise for that. When it experienced alongside others, it can be more than that – so I hope you will forgive me.

I’ve heard stories that have made me laugh, and deepen the respect that I hold Dai in. It was a bittersweet honour to be asked by Doug to co-host the recording of the last TIDEPodcast – and to help channel the feelings of those who knew him. But, even then, the essence of my feelings keep slipping out of my hands.

Before I say too much more, I want to say that I didn’t know Dai as long or as well as many others. Beyond catching up on social media and at events, that started about 10 years ago, I’d say that my deeper friendship with Dai is only a couple of years old, and I felt that we were just getting started on something. We recently discovered that we had lots of unexpected things in common – and, though we did not always agree, our values were the same. Nights out, joining us on family holidays, and visits to stay over with him… It did feel almost romantic – and there was a depth and intensity that made me feel that our connection was special. 

Except that it wasn’t. Dai was loving to many people. 

Jealousy had no part of his heart and I certainly didn’t feel envious – sharing Dai was easy. My wife and kids loved him too – and understood why I kept going on about him. I struggle with male friendships… (I hate talking about sport, kit, facts&figures, etc..) and yet hanging out with Dai was easy. I could be the friend I wanted to be – not a version of it that meant drinking beer (I don’t like) or arguing about the best album. 

Dai was no saint, and he’d hate it if I wrote this post in a way that denied his faults – as it would be bullshit. But I thought he was special. Someone who I’d have in my life for a long time and who’d bring more colour and depth of feeling (more of that selfishness!). In many friendships, this is a balanced thing – where both parties ‘invest’ in a relationship… and love is often experienced as a transactional thing. 

Most of us spend years looking for somewhere to direct our love.. Except that this limited resource metaphor (where £=❤) shows where my deepest, and now saddest feelings about Dai are.

Dai’s heart was open, and his love was leaking out all the time.  Initially, it seemed that this was a beautiful thing and made us want to open our hearts  wider. However, the closer I got to Dai, the more I realised that his heart was (in part) so open because it was broken. 

There are aspects of Dai’s life story, that are not for public posts, that explain how his heart was broken – and why the hope of reconciliation were the clamps that kept it open. 

There were ways he could have closed it up (at least to safer levels) but he chose not to. I tried to guide him, advise him, support him – to make choices that made him less exposed.

Many of us would have done anything to close up that hurt. He did find deep comfort in many aspects of his life, and this is not a tale of tragedy. 

Like he said about being barefoot – feeling the hurt was part of life – but it was more than that.  I quote here from Dai’s amazing post about walking the Samaria gorge barefoot:

“I knew my feet were so bruised and scratched and abraded that the sandals would only make me think a step was okay, when really the ground is not what it seems, and pain would jolt through my body. Better to remain barefoot and deal with the world as it actually is. This might seem stupid. But here’s a thing I discovered on my trek through the self-enforced iteration of my steps: your feet report pain to your brain, but if you find a flat and comfortable foothold your sensors tell you this is good. The pain sensors do not activate. The pain – the signals – must be endured for the time your foot is in contact with the objectionable object. After that has passed your foot recalibrates and evaluates the next footstep independently. It was amazing. Inspiring. I knew my feet were damaged. I knew each location upon each foot that was damaged…. I am battling to make good choices. Every bleeding step.”

And this is closer to why I am still reeling from Dai’s death. Dai battled harder than most of us will ever have to, to make good choices. He could have shouted about his pain, about the unfairness, his loss, what could have been, what he should have been able to look forward to. I would have done. Most of us would have done. Many do. 

Dai chose, wherever possible, to live and love every step barefoot. Walking and running alongside him was a lesson in life, in love, and respect; for himself, for others, and for the values he believed in.  I am sad because, in the end, Dai did not get the reward for his goodness that he deserved for this. 

I cannot walk or run with Dai any further. This hurts. I am crying as I write this. 

Thanks to Dai, I’ve learned how to step less heavily. Depend less on handholds. Feel the texture of the ground of my life with less fear.  Stand up straighter. Judge less, hope more. Expect less – give more. And, mostly, just keep walking.

I’ll miss him.