What Makes Me Cry?

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