A Rose is Just a Rose

I have again, been stumped by the process of finding words that portray my thought processes. I recognize that is my process of grief. I recognize that this process of grief, is my key life role, following Shelley’s murder.

The reason it is my key life role, is that failure to face up to, to look at, to feel, to breathe this grief will only succeed in limiting my life. That without doing so, I can’t claim, to have my life. If I don’t have my life, I don’t have anything to offer my family.

It is a catch 22. In order to be open to the good things in live, to take joy from the wonderful and joyous things that my life has to offer, I have to also walk hand in hand with my grief, hand in hand with my love and loss. It will be my companion, for the rest of my life.

The shape and form is like one of those liquid shapes in a glass ornament. The ones you turn upside down and watch as the coloured bubbles form and reform shapes, slowly coagulating into a full mass at the bottom of the container. At any time, you can flip it over and what once was, is no more, but is a new entity a new series of creations before it all settles again at the bottom of the container.

At least with such a thing, you are able to decide when to turn it over, when to shake it up, when to let it just be. Grief is not like that. It shakes you up, rattles you through and through, twists and turns at your insides, enrages, frustrates and saddens you beyond words. It is a constant and mysterious companion. You never know when it will hit you full force, or when it will appear as some very gentle sweet thought of some other time and place.

One of the hardest parts is that there is no choice in this scenario that is my life. Shelley had no chance and no choice. That was taken away by the murderer’s.

There is no how to do this task. No right way. Maybe a wrong way, I’m not sure. I do know that it is a unique task for each person effected by Shelley’s death. All of us who love and miss her, have different ways of coping, or not, with our grief. Each one of us at times has a melt down, and we, like the bubbles in the container, regroup and support one another. You never know whose turn is next. You just know that is ok to be however you have to be with it. I have learnt so much from my family, my HB and my sons throughout this process. I am humbled by their wisdom and insights and devastated by the rawness of their grief.

I have previously written about forgiveness. My thoughts and feelings on that haven’t changed. I will never forgive the murderer’s.

When I have been silent, I can say I am sad. The truth is though that anger also silences me. I think I clench my teeth in fear of letting out the rage. I am frightened to hear and see my own anger. I am not sure what it looks like but it is huge. It is difficult to know what to be angry at, which doesn’t help. I end up feeling like a child throwing a tantrum repeating, it isn’t fair, it isn’t fair, fix it, someone just fix it. But you know what? It can’t be fixed. That is where my real anger lies.

I have just watched two movies, in which the stories were of acts of revenge for the murder of a family member, or members. It is always a bit raw watching a movie where someone’s child or partner is murdered. It takes empathy to a whole new level.

Each of the two main characters, embarked on the task of personally killing those responsible for the murder of their loved ones. It was a violent and bloody path and they both achieved their goal. They obliterated the opposition. Total success you could say.

What was intriguing for me, was the personal process of unraveling each of these characters went through. The personal destruction of who they were, who they had seen themselves as I guess, was all encompasing.

The two endings were different. In one the character ended up killing the last person responsible, at the same time as he killed him. They both sat, bloody and battered for a minute or two before they croaked. The chilling words of the last baddie to the avenger, as they both took their last breaths, were “See what I have made you become. You are no different to me now.”

The second movie’s ending, involved the avenger surviving, through the help of an empathetic detective, who allowed her to shoot him, not fatally, and then stage the scene that the baddies had all died in some internal gang shoot out. So you could say, she had gotten away with it. But she too, was no longer the person she had been, how could she be after physically haven taken lives, even of arseholes.

I felt sick at the end of each of these movies, physically and emotionally. It is one thing to have anger, and a lurking rage that can intimidate your own soul. It is an entirely different matter to enact that anger.

Despite the fact that these two stories, were just that, stories in which we might empathise and detach from reality and perhaps have some inner voice saying, good on you, the reality for me is a sense of how wrong all this was.

I have at times felt that there must be something else, that I should be doing about Shelley’s murder. I have felt somehow that I should have been, should be able to shout loud enough so that the world takes notice, and changes the way we do business as human beings. You know, I can fix the world. Stop all the wars, all the injustices, all the imbalances of power, etc etc. You know what - and I know, that is not going to happen.

So I have come full circle, back to the start of this posting. My life task is to live my life as best as I can, as well as I can and to do no harm. I can honour Shelley by doing this, by embracing all that is good, by walking hand in hand with my grief, not being afraid of my feelings. This is my path.

"I would say that I’m a non-violent soldier.
In place of weapons of violence, you have to use your mind, your heart, your sense of humour; every faculty available to you because no one has the right to take the life of another human being.”

Joan Baez b 1941

Arohanui
KG

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