I’ve been turning this post over in my head for the last few days; trying to get the words together and say what I want to say.
Like many, I awoke on Tuesday morning and turned on the news. What I read on the ticker tape, what I heard made me rather sad. It also made me angry, scared and as though I wanted to cry and into my breakfast.
The sadness that I felt; it was as though someone had sat a great big block of ice on my stomach. The last time that I had felt that way, Britain had gone to the polls and made a once in a generation decision. This, had nothing to do with a ballot box. This was about beautiful people, enjoying beautiful music and doing what gave their life colour.
I am not about to go into politics here; that is not what the blog is about.
I had my breakfast, I had my mint chutney on toast. Grabbed my coat, my handbag. I got in to my car.
Ordinarily, I will turn the key and I will have Maroon5 or Adele blaring out from George’s speakers. The bass will only just kick in, and I will sing all the way to school and the city of peace and reconciliation.
I didn’t do that on Tuesday.
Trying to remember the frequency for Radio 5, I pressed scan. I could not bring myself to listen to music; it seemed the most uncomfortable thing to do. Instead, I listened to the shocked sounding Nicki Campbell, and tried to get a better picture and some clarity.
I wanted to cry, and how I didn’t as I drove, I do not know.
Having got to work, and parked up, I sent messages to friends and family with young children. If they could hug their kids for me, from their Aunty, their Massi and Bhua; they bring colour to my world, and I couldn’t imagine my rainbows without them.
I could not imagine what the mums, dads, family and friends of those in Manchester would be going through.
Even going to school, talking to colleagues, it was heavy. There was a horrible, grey, leaden fugue and life seemed to be suspended. The world of rainbows had become grey.
I saw my students in a new light; they are all the same age as some of those who would have been out that evening. I could not imagine walking into my lesson and not seeing them there. They make my job what it is, and they are why I teach.
As well as being sad, I was angry. Children, young people, music; they make the world a brighter, more colourful and loving place. For them not to exist, infuriates me.
It is only days since the event-I’m not even sure what to call it, the words are abrasive-and everything is still very raw, immediate, the world is still trying to process things.
Over the last day or so, I have seen things about yellow and bees. Above, you will see a sunflower that once grew on the plot, there is a bumble bee rather enjoying it. Yellow, is the colour of hope. Bees feature heavily in the life of Manchester, so the image seems apt.
Hope, was also the last thing to be found in Pandora’s box. A tiny voice, making itself known; asking not to be forgotten.
When all else is lost, it seems daft to do away with Hope.
Hope is powerful. It is courage, being steadfast, and having resilience.
Above all, it is motivation to heal, to love and see the brightness in a world where it seems only darkness, chaos and carnage reign.
To have hope is to believe.
To believe is to have strength.