When I was a little girl, my brothers would lash out at me
whenever I would start to cry. They criticized me for ‘dramatizing’ the
situation and often accused me of using my tears to get my way with my parents.
Then, when I was a teenager, my
mother would tell me to ‘woman up,’ be tough, do not let ‘them’ see you cry.
I cannot control the tears that well
up inside of me. They are an expression of who I am and how I process the world
around me—most of the time, crying feels like a proper cleansing, a completion
of sorts.
Fireflies dancing in the marshy grass displaying their
electric light show on a balmy April night make me cry.
The cacophony of nature’s song from
dawn till dusk makes me cry.
The orange ball that lights up the
sky from the mountains to the sea as it sets and marks the end of another day
can make me cry.
The sweet elixir that is wine as it
courses through my veins, and I sit on my balcony on a warm breezy evening
observing the glorious beauty that surrounds me, that makes me cry.
When thoughts of
friends and family, who have been here and gone to the great beyond pop into my
head, they solicit tears. The conversations I have with them, in silence and
out loud, of how I still miss them, see them and ask for their guidance and
advice, often make me cry.
The
vision of my grandkids as they came to LIFE from the womb of my firstborn.
The overwhelming connection to all
things at once, while in Samadhi during deep meditation.
The lonely orphaned African baby boy
stranded and crying amid chaos as his village burns down around him.
The pain in my heart when I am
misunderstood and criticized. The intense joy that I feel in times of peace, and,
while I am in a state of ecstasy.
Sometimes, when I think of the
four-year-old baby who once was me, even though her 13-year-old neighbor raped
her, she grew up to be brave and strong because she survived; that thought can make
me cry.
And even when I read. The written word can elicit a range of feelings
that run the gambit of human emotions.
THE END
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