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Magazine Excerpts
- Feb ~ Mar 2004 |
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Yonnies
At Steppy Beach |
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Tide comes in......Tide
goes out.
That pretty much describes my grief.
Well, from the point of view of being on the beach,
it describes my grief. If I were to venture out into
the water, no doubt I'd be knocked under a few times
by a great wave, tossed and agitated like a helpless
hankie in a washing machine and then spat out onto shore
to dry out! I've never been a water baby, and I don't
swim, so let's stick to the shore.
My family had a holiday house at
Airey's Inlet, along the Great Ocean Road, and I'd take
the kids there several times a year, regardless of the
weather. We would walk along the beach, making footprints,
dragging heel and toe to imprint imaginary creatures.
We would delve into the rock pools, poking and picking
at whatever was contained within. There were shells
to collect, seaweed to drape over head and shoulders,
sandcastles to build and bodies to part bury.
Our favourite beach was one which
my kids named Steppy Beach. Access to it was down the
steep, winding track, stepping ever so slowly, through
undergrowth, over rocks, ledges and tree roots, many
steps down until we would feel the soft sand of the
shore.
And then there were the yonnies
- those lovely flat stones that we would skim across
the top of the water - the ocean to eternity. At low
tide they were laid out, thousands of them, ready and
waiting to be chosen, tested for the task- small, smooth,
flat against the palm of the hand and then - fling!
My daughter, Alison, took a stunning
photograph recently of Steppy Beach and those beautiful
yonnies all laid out. She sent it to me and it's the
screensaver on my computer. Memories came flooding back
- photos do that - and I cried. It hurts to remember
sometimes. But I got lost in that photo.
I saw each yonnie as something more
- each one representing a child lost to its parents.
I saw the souls of all our children, first the ones
I knew from my dear friends at Compassionate Friends,
and I could name them. Then I
became contentedly lost in the picture - seeing the
tide gather up our sons and daughters and hugging them
to the bosom of Mother Ocean.
Then the tide, when it's ready,
in God's own time, will spill them back onto the beach
again, to be with us.
Tide comes in....
Tide goes out.
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Mariette
TCF, Vic mother of Dylan
(died Jan 12th '97 aged 22 yrs.) |
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What
Can It Possibly Mean?
Our 20-year-old son,
Alex, was killed in a motorcycle crash eight years ago.
Like everyone following the death of their children
we found the news of his death to be horrifically unbelievable.
We denied it - we
argued with this obscene fact. We asked ourselves those
countless "why" questions; we constructed
endless chains of "if only" scenarios which
would have had a different result. We could almost convince
ourselves that he couldn't possible be dead. Except
that he is.
Finally, we came
to accept the dreadful truth that he is dead, and will
still be dead for every day for the rest of our lives.
The "why"
questions remain unanswered. For some people, belief
in a compassionate creator answers it and provides hope
for a future beyond death. But many bereaved parents,
perhaps most, must attempt to find understanding of
their child's death within themselves.
They must try to
identify a meaning in their own lives, while carrying
the damage and emptiness the death of a child leaves.
Psychiatrist Viktor
Frankl teaches that the key to living a "happy"
life, one free of psychosis, is to invest what you do
with meaning; to put your life into a context which
makes it meaningful and purposeful to you. We find this
difficult. Eight years and one grandchild after Alex's
death, our lives are busy, interesting and fulfilling.
But from time to
time we are stricken by the overwhelming sadness, the
helplessness, the hopelessness. Then we just try to
carry on automatically, waiting until the despair passes
and we can return to what is now our normal. So what
meaning does our life have?
I once read somewhere
that the purpose of life is laughter, and the love of
friends and family. I interpret that to mean that the
meaning of your life is in the way you live it. Stephen
Covey noted the importance of the four Ls - to live,
love, laugh, and leave a legacy. In other words, to
live life fully and enthusiastically, to love and be
loved, laughter is essential to life and, at the end
of the day, to leave the world slightly better for your
having lived in it.
So that is what
my life 'after Alex' now means to me. The bleak times
contrast with the richness and joy of other times, and
they teach us that we can carry on, that we do have
the resources to "run on empty" for a while.
Life is like a wine glass - it can be either half full
or half empty, it all depends on how you look at it.
You can't change the circumstances of your life, but
you are free to choose the attitude you take to it.
And I can now laugh again.
However, I would
so much rather have learned this lesson some other way,
and have been able to share it with Alex.
Written
by Dennis
TCF- Vic. Aust.
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Still
Alive |
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You left
your imprint on my soul,
so I'd remember and not let go.
You came back across the worlds that separate
us, whispering to me,
telling me what I needed to know,
you helped me find my way, day after day.
You once again felled the ramparts of my heart,
to connect me with the love I'd thought had
gone.
Your boundless spirit would conquer any divide,
to make me understand,
you're still alive.
Written by Steven
TCF, Vic. Aust.
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In
The Wake of Grief.
Wiping tears away,
as the seasons go by,
leaves are falling,
winter's on the way.
This cold frosty morning
a new day is dawning,
but for me life is grey
and maybe here to stay.
The grief it never ceases,
sunshine or rain,
it seems just the same.
So many emotions
I'm struggling to contain,
as I strive to recapture,
my life once again.
Written by Steven
TCF Vic. Aust.
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