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

XX

coldplay fix you

Can't resist posing this. Saw it in the movie Young at Heart then discovered it was from a Coldplay album. Loved the movie, love this song. Enjoy.
More blogging to come.
KG
XX

All at Sea

The spring has sprung and the grass has riz. The fresh new air of spring envelopes my world. I sit outside looking at the amazing native bush backdrop, across the vast lawn. The daisies have popped up all over the lawn, in no particular pattern. It is incredible to think that there are so many different types of green and here they are, displayed before me in all their glory.

The native bush is like a stage set providing a magnificent backdrop of shapes and colours. The interlaced branches of shrubs and trees make a magnificent canopy through which the light filters. Each puff of wind provides a light show of gentle flickers as the branches stretch and weave allowing the light to shine here and then there.

I have always wanted a house with sea views. The ultimate dream. But now, I wouldn’t swap this setting for that.

It is ever changing, like the sea; it sings and swirls, moves and shakes in high winds, like the sea; it presents an amazing show of shadows and light, like the sea; it is a living, whispering, ever changing entity, like the sea; it is home to many different living species, like the sea; it is magnificent, like the sea; it replenishes and refreshes me, like the sea; it caresses my spirit and mind, like the sea; it soothes my soul, like the sea; it somehow allows me to breathe deeply and fends off the panic and claustrophobia of living, like the sea.

I sit at the outdoor table under a magnificent green shade sail, looking out at this vast expanse of green sea. I am the captain of this house/ship, confident I can steer her through the sea of grasses and trees. I have my trusty wind rainbow sock, (from San Francisco) at the helm, to assist me. I am peaceful and confident I can make this journey.

Sometimes, when night has settled her blanket over the sky, I wake thinking that I can’t breathe, that I must get up early in the morning and head out to my favourite beach. Piha, the beach that had been my sanctuary, my salvation when it had become claustrophobic for me to be in the city, to be in my house. I feel like some land-stuck fish out of water, fending off the panic that there is not enough oxygen around me and that if only I can get to the sea, I will be able to breathe again. I drift off back to sleep with my plan for the early morning. When light starts the day again, I will run away to the sea. I will be fine, by the sea.

The morning arrives, I get up and go outside to my bush sea. I never do get into the car and drive to Piha. It just seems so far away now, and I don’t want to waste time getting there. So I sit viewing the vista at my own back door and I breathe easy.


Arohanui

KGXX

Razzle Dazzle Me

Challenged by the blank paper, I have again been waiting to find the “perfect” words, realising all the time that there are no such words. And that this is becoming an obsession of mine!! So I have shaken of that particular prerequisite and am “just writing.”

I do think of amazing things, sometimes in the middle of the night and even go so far as to say to myself, “remember to put that in the blog in the morning.” Of course, you know it, come morning and it has gone. That thought, that snippet, that insight, those seemingly perfect words - evaporated into the place of dreams, left free to float uncaptured.

The essence of things is much the same.

The peacefulness that I now have from doing a job that I love. The knowing, that I can do it, and do it well. The growing confidence each time I go to work and the incorporating of a new peacefulness with this and the removal of fear of making a major fuck up. I still might I guess, but I never did before in those five and a half years, so I have decided not to waste negative energy worrying about something I do have control over. I just need to keep doing my best.

The parallel travelling companion of grief, like a tried yet unpredictable friend, is ever present. It accompanies the peacefulness, suprises me with a snippet of a thought, a gentle kiss on the cheek, a child’s hand tangible in my hand. It drags me back and forth in time, rerunning a memory, projecting a disaster. It enrages the monster within me, and I struggle to take the air back from around it.

The quest for the perfect words, the frustration at reading what I have written and not being satisfied that I have conveyed “it”, whatever that particular “it” might be at that particular time, has made me more aware of other people’s words, language. As I have mooched my way through some of the rainy four days off I have, every 10 days, I have observed much more keenly the use of language.

Some of these observations have been through watching the American election campaign on Fox TV, (forgive me from succumbing to the nauseous presenters but they come with the territory!! I am not sure, if they are meant to be taken seriously or not but I find them quite hilarious, caricatures in fact, of serious news presenters.) Anyway, I watched Hilary Clinton and Barack Obama’s speeches. I thought they did a good job. He has wonderful rhetoric, inspiring, motivational words delivered exquisitely. She said all the right things, and while I kept waiting for her to choke on her disappointment at not being the nominee, she didn’t. She appeared gracious and to be acting for the “greater good” of the Democratic Party. Well done those two. You are left wondering at the depth of substance and the ability for the actions to match the words.

One week has elapsed from the above start to this entry. I have just spent a little bit of time watching the Republican Convention. To be honest, I feel sick to my stomach. There was a video honouring a soldier, a Navy Seal, who had thrown himself on a grenade, to protect his fellow soldiers. He was an honourable young man, with a family, doing his job with commitment and passion. It cost him his life. His family now have to learn to live with his death, willingly entered into or not. It will make no difference to their grief.

What made my stomach churn was not the honouring of this man, but that his contribution and his death, was being used to prop up the Republican point that seems to me to be that they are better equipped to safeguard America. That a death in war for one’s country, is an acceptable cost and one that they as leaders, will not shy away from. The genuine gratitude and respect for the members of his family who were present at the convention, was I am sure sincere. It all just seemed too rah rah rah for me and while heart strings and patriotism was rampant, all I could see was that there would be more young men and women sent to their deaths, in the name of politics. The speakers, of course, do not themselves face these dangers or the reality of their decisions. They can stand there and make emotional speeches, squeeze a tear or two out of their eyes, say he/she will never be forgotten, but they are at risk, only on the political battlefield, where ego and power are the prizes.

Who will win the battle for President, is anybody’s guess.

Ah well. Other words that have taken me in, lifted my soul and my heart, have been in the Janet Frame book, “Toward Another Summer.” I began reading and was unable to put this book down, until I had finished it. A bittersweet achievement, in that I didn’t want the words to end, but was compelled to reach the end. Her words have the ability to say so much, to contain so many layers of insight, emotion, to reveal to you the reader, so much family history, to take you into her life as a child, a young woman and a writer. I was totally transfixed and in awe. She found the perfect words. I have been inspired to keep stuttering along in my own way.

Words frame our reality. Actions define our lives. My by line – and damn near perfect!

Arohanui,
KG
XX

More Shopping More Grief

Still shopping today but the task is now complete. Three pairs of dress slacks, three more gorgeous shirts, (silk) and a fabulous black/charcoal silk tracksuit. The jacket is ideal for throwing over the top of the aforementioned shirts and slacks to wear at work, if the air conditioning is still temperamental. And not to forget, the two new pairs of shoes.

Tomorrow is my final day off before I get back into the 6 on, 4 off routine. I am going to read a book, write some poems and do some gardening. Oh and pick up my slacks which all had to be taken up a bit. I must be shrinking or else all the other fat people are taller than me!!

It has been a weird transition from one job to another. I feel like a real weight has been taken off my shoulders and that I can now resume to contribute in a meaningful way, to the society in which I live. I feel empowered and happy.

Happy is a word that doesn’t fit my skin all that well. But I can’t deny that I am – happy. There is a tandem movement going on, I am happy and at the same time there is room for the enduring sadness that is the missing of my darling Shelley. It runs along with everything. It is present in everything I do, say, feel and think. And guess what, I now know it can be parallel with my happiness.

To complicate matters even further, I am also angry. Angry that I have to deal with all these complicated emotions, angry that I really don’t know the best way of doing that. Angry, angry, angry, that Shelley was murdered. Angry, that the jury couldn’t reach a decision. Angry that July is loaded with so much joy and sorrow. Again tandem emotions. The births of my fabulous sons, their dad’s birthday and Shelley’s death day. Ah at least I know where the anger is coming from. So in July I have great cause to celebrate and great cause to be devastated. I honour both of these emotions as best I can.

I still go to see my counselor, here is a promo for her www.counselme.co.nz
Truly, if you ever need to speak with someone, I recommend this amazing woman. She has guided me and helped keep me sane, (ok but you know what I mean!) I have placed my life in her hands and am a stronger and better person for having done so.

I don’t want this blog to be seen as depressing or morbid. It is simply my recounting of where I am at. Grief is part of my life – I am not ashamed of that and it can’t be any other way. This is my story only and I bare my soul in the hope that it may give comfort to other people working through their grief. If it makes you depressed – don’t read it. I am a cheerful, happy, pretty much well adjusted human being living my life with my grief. I will not silence it nor will it overtake me (with help and the love and support of my family.) It just is.

This week I received the details of the planned Hyde Park Memorial for the 7/7 victims. I plan on being their next July7 for the unveiling of this mangnificent tribute and memorial to all those who died and all those who survived. I just wish it didn’t have to be there at all.

Arohanui,
KG
XX

Shock for a shopaphobic

Fun and shopping are not two words that anyone who knows me, would associate with me!! But hey, I have just had fun shopping. Amazing. I can hardly believe it myself.

Having just left a uniformed job, (not a nice uniform but it certainly cuts time off your start to the day not having to think what to wear), and getting ready to start my new/old job on Friday, I had to get some new duds.

Being something of a shopaphobic I have done this task in two bites. A week or so ago I got up early, hit the mall before almost anyone else, and in two hours had purchased six great tops that I love. Yikes!! What is happening to me. Yes I love them. They are all great colours, soft and stretchy material and they even look nice on me.

New outfit topped off brilliantly - Yeah Right!

Having secured my top half I have felt a bit under pressure to make sure I got the bottom covered. No easy task I can assure you. So today, I kept to my winning strategy and hit the mall early and within not two, but one hour, I had purchased three fabulous pairs of dress slacks. Amazing.

I have since played dress ups, also most unlike me, with both the tops and the bottoms and you will never guess what? They all go together brilliantly. I can’t believe it.

So if any of you out there have suffered the same aversion to malls, and shopping and been like me, happy blobbing around in whatever is comfortable there is hope of a change. I put some of it down to watching the instant makeover programmes on the telly. I chose types of things I would not usually have chosen, took my time, (well not too much time obviously), and hey presto. I doubt I look 10 years younger in four hours but I certainly feel damn flash.

So a good news story for today.

Have fun and if you get bored – go shopping. Ha ha

Arohanui,

KG

PS. Opps, I still have the shoe challenge to go and only three days left!! A piece of cake!!

Hung Jury - 7/7 Trial

On one level I haven’t given the trial much thought. I have received the daily updates from our Metropolitan Police Liaison officer, quickly skimmed through them and then just waited. I waited during the 7th July, then the dates in July that are Shelley’s two brothers birthdays, also her dad’s birthday and the date of her funeral service in NZ – all July dates.

I waited. maybe hoping for some kind of justice to strike the hearts of those alleged to have helped plan the murder or my daughter. Had they been found guilty, I expected to feel some kind of long distance satisfaction that the smirks had been wiped off their faces, and that their lives would now be drastically changed by having to spend their every breathing moment in a prison cell.

Had they been found innocent, strangely, I would have been relieved for them, knowing that a vigilant justice system had thrashed out all the details and reached a sound judgment.

I am surprised at the depth of my feeling at the non-result. I guess I wanted a decision, one way or another. To have no further clarity and the knowledge that it may well all start over again with a retrial, is quite simply devastating. It feels like the worst possible result. I am none the wiser as to whether they participated or not.

All the families of the dead have to wait for an outcome in this trial before a final inquest can be held, and families delivered the “official” findings. Of course, it makes little difference, we all know our loved ones are dead, how they died. The Inquest is, I guess, just another marker in the journey of loss, and it has just been moved further away with no definite time frame.

There may not even be a retrial, there may be a retrial and then could they appeal if found guilty? I don’t know.

In one way, as I say it doesn’t matter, in another way it does and I know that many families and survivors will find this whole process distressing.

My thoughts are with them all at this time.

Kia kaha

KG