February 26th, 2017: This was the day that I sobbed listening to Viola Davis’s Oscar acceptance speech. Laying there, on the sink hole center of my couch, I made eye contact with my mother and saw her eyes watering as well. I started to wonder. How often do my parents cry in one week? How often is anyone actually, physically, moved to tears? And most often, why? Although it’s hard to draw conclusions from one person, in two weeks, I decided to do a little study on myself. So, from my perspective, here’s an answer to that question.
March 1st, 2017: Stress. Stress like an itchy, chunky, swallowing turtleneck that you can’t breathe in and you can’t take off. Stress like knowing something you aren’t supposed to, like waking up in the middle of the night suffocated by your own covers, like trusting everything but nothing at all. It gets to us all sometimes. Tonight it got me. Tonight it made me cry.
March 7th, 2017: I used to be really good at being alone. I used to crave solitude, because I explored and familiarized myself with myself; I created time to do things that I love. Recently, though, solitude has scared me. Not because I think there could be something strange in my basement, not because of the presence of something scary, but because of the nothingness.
Three hours into a night at home, doing nothing but accepting my fear of being alone through laziness, I decided to venture into my crawl space.
My “Special Suitcase”, as it had been named since I found it on a street corner when I was five, sat waiting for me. Over the years it’s been decorated with carefully chosen stickers that, like horcruxes, each represent a piece of my heart.
The satisfying click of the suitcase made a grin appear on my face, and I swear my hair flew back as a gust of wind and a beckoning gold light flew from the blue beauty.
My special suitcase is packed. Packed with letters, from the campers I counsel at Van Buren Youth Camp, telling me that their chicken just died, or that it’s their 8th birthday and they finally got a puppy named Fiona, or that they miss camp because the trees and I are their only best friends. “Open When” packages from my friend Abby, that I save for days like this when all I need is to be reminded of everything that exists. Notes, from my friends Allie and Nora and Nik, saying that I remind them of sunshine. Drawings, from myself as a five year old to myself last month, and special reminders I’ve written down for myself. Books, that changed not only the way I read but the way I am; photos, bits of old yoga mats, addresses, paper cranes that made me leave with a different perspective than I sat down to make them.
I’m reading notes from camp friends and I’m smelling this old, old suitcase, and I’m seeing, I’m actually seeing. Well, I’m seeing, until I’m not, because that’s where I started crying. Crying not out of sadness, and not out of joy. The tears came from a place of knowledge. A place where I knew that personally, extraordinary moments of solitude don’t come often. Where I knew I needed those tears to be a physical reminder of the strange, simplistic beauty of that moment.
So, yes, that cry was a biggie. It was.
March 11th, 2017: My little brother is a freshman in high school, and this year he went out on a limb and decided to join Show Choir. This weekend I had the privilege of watching his very last show choir competition of the season. In the middle of their finals performance, I swear I had an out of body experience. When someone loves something, it shines out of their face; it radiates, it is a physical and palpable energy that courses through your body and heart and mind. I looked up at my best friend on stage and saw her make eye contact with my brother, smiling at him with all the joy in the world. My eyes traveled with her, and when I saw my little brother up there, slow tears escaped my eyes. He was glowing. I watched him become more of himself in that 6 minute performance than I’d seen him my whole life. I watched him sing like it was the last thing he’d ever do, dance with confidence deep down within him, and most importantly, be with genuine passion and joy. I don’t know that I’ve ever experienced pride like that. With music that moved me, a performance that blew me away over and over again, and people I love doing what they love in front of me, I let my tears flow freely.
My two weeks are up, and I find myself re-reading these documentations often. Although they certainly didn’t answer any analytical questions, here’s what I learned about myself:
There is an extreme variety of moments that move me to tears. Sadness, and fear, are just as valid of emotions as happiness and love, which are just as valid of emotions as the ones that are inexplainable; the ones that barely exist. Every emotion is valid, and every cry is necessary.
I’ve learned that I feel my emotions through tears, but I have also learned the importance of recognizing that it is equally normal to not cry as it is to cry. Understanding and reflecting on why I cry, helps me to understand why others do. Or don’t, for that matter. Through this, I have been reminded again of the importance of reflection. Acknowledging why we, as humans, react and behave the way we do, makes us more patient with ourselves and with the world around us. These little journals have served to be a beautiful collection of reminders about the beauty of depth and emotion. And, at the end of it, I am content with my tears.
