Breaking the Shell

Originally written:  August 11, 2016.

“Your pain is the breaking of the shell 
that encloses your understanding. 
It is the bitter potion by which the physician 
within you heals your sick self. 
Therefore, trust the physician and 
drink his remedy in silence and tranquility.”

[Kahlil Gibran, "The Prophet"]

I would never deny someone their grief.  This is not that.  

Despite my intellectualism, I have always believed that emotional responses are, in many ways, our most honest ones.  And I believe every human being should work to live with authenticity, to truly experience the world for themselves.  'Trust in your own experience of the world', said Buddha.

I would never deny someone their grief.  This is not that.  

Rather, this is the feeble attempt of one man to assuage the pain of those around me.  To tell them I know their pain.  To tell them how I cope with it and put it behind me, in the vain hope it may, in some small way, help them to do the same.

Let this be that.

It is a special and unique type of grief, one that less than two percent of the world population will likely ever feel.  It's also very invisible.  It sometimes takes place right under the noses of friends, family, and coworkers, and often goes unnoticed or unaddressed.  They might not suspect, and even if they did they could probably never empathize.  It is peculiar, conflicted, and will be difficult to even describe in a way that anyone who's never experienced it might understand.

It is nonetheless very real.

Insects of the suborder "rhopalocera" as adults typically have large, brightly-coloured wings and noticeably "fluttering" flight paths.  There are species around the globe, and in the art and literature of many cultures they are regarded as beautiful, and as symbols of transformation, transcendence, or rebirth.  In some mythologies and folklore, they are regarded as symbols of the human soul.  From Filipino superstitions to Roman sculptures, they're known the world over. 

And most people are familiar with at least the basics of their multi-phase life-cycle: eggs, caterpillar (larva), pupa (cocoons), and adults.  And of course, we've all seen them in their caterpillar stage, voraciously munching away on the leaves of our gardens.

I am fond of butterflies, and I wrote once of a particular little parable involving one from Taoist lore, of which I'm also very fond.  This is no surprise for anyone who knows me.

Any story involving my making and leaving behind origami wherever I go would also not come as a surprise to anyone who knows me well.  All three floors of the office at work are littered with little paper flowers, frogs, minions, a few dragons, and - from over the last several months - butterflies.

Many months ago, I began attending a monthly support group for parents of "gender creative" kids.  It's an eclectic group of people from all walks of life, who share one peculiar thing in common: raising transgender (or non-binary, a-gender, gender-fluid... it gets complicated...) kids.

These people share a common grief, one of which they are often reluctant to speak even among this collection of people who might understand, and of which they likely never speak outside those precious walls.  How can they confide in those who they fear most certainly could never understand the bizarre experience of feeling as though you've lost a child... ...when you still have that child?

Can you mourn someone who isn't gone?  Can you mourn a future you expected that you know now will never come?  Can you mourn for a future that didn't truly belong to you, but to someone else?  Can you mourn it even though that someone else will still have a future, just one that's very different than you'd ever expected or planned for?

The answer to all those questions is a mind-boggling "yes".

And I'm not saying it holds the same gravity as having a child die - I'm sure it doesn't - but it must be a shadow - an echo of sorts, perhaps -  that is in some strange way what it must be like.

It is felt very mildly by some (among whom I count myself), and somewhat more acutely by others (among whom I count Liza-Ann).  And while I think I've generally had it pretty easy (the smiles of relief of a child able to be his most authentic self did wonders to wash away the shock and confusion of life's biggest curve ball), I still, many moons later, notice the occasional old photo, or hear a feminine giggle escape, and am reminded of what was to be, but won't.  What can't.

And I feel a touch of sadness.

And I remind myself, in my head, of what I told myself countless times over the course of months as I littered the office, my house, friend's houses, doctor's offices, grocery stores, airports, and support group meeting rooms with little, folded pieces of colourful paper:

Don't mourn the caterpillar.  Embrace the butterfly.