We all have a place inside of us that holds our emotions. We may have immediate access to this cache of feelings or we may have hidden them away so long ago, we forgot they were even there. In
spiritual circles, it’s said that we are never given more than we can handle. I’m not so sure about that. Life can be deeply overwhelming. But when I flit from one state of being to another in record speed, I try to keep up. It’s like a game of musical chairs. We walk round and round, not knowing when the music will stop. When it does, we rush to find an empty seat. We hope we won’t be the one remaining person without a seat. The one who gets left behind. The one who
has to fight the urge to cry.
When Alice in Wonderland nibbled at a cookie, she shot up to nine feet tall and got stuck in a doorway. She couldn’t stop sobbing. “You ought to be ashamed,” she chided herself, “a great girl like you to go on crying in this way! Stop this immediately!” Pretty soon she was flailing around in a deep pool of her own salty water. “I wish I hadn’t
cried so much,” said Alice as she swam about, trying to find her way out. “I shall be punished for it now, I suppose, by being drowned by my own tears!”
Many of us see tears as a punishment, something to be ashamed of. Something to apologize for. “Don’t cry,” people say, not because they think our tears are hurting us but rather because they don’t how to be with us in our grief. l had a period in my life when like Alice, I was so emotional, I couldn’t stop crying for days on end. I thought I
should have better control of myself. No one wants to cry in Yoga class, in restaurants, in line at the pharmacy. I had prided myself for being strong, powerful and able to withstand whatever life had to offer. But all of that had changed. I tried to disappear under the covers. It didn’t work. I had to embrace the fact that I was vulnerable, out of control and needy. Whatever was going on,
it was clear that I had to face the music and stop trying to hide.
What triggered my crying jag doesn’t matter. What does matter was how I dealt with it. A dear friend, Bethany, emailed me a quote from Ram Dass: “I’ve been asked many times whether this is the
Aquarian age and it’s all just beginning, or if this is Armageddon and this is the end. I have to admit I don’t know but whichever way it goes, my work is the same – to quiet my mind, open my heart and relieve suffering wherever I find it.”
I was brought up in a family where joy was celebrated and sorrow was buried. When I was fourteen, my parents enrolled me in a school in Washington D. C. that offered both academics and ballet. I really wanted to go, I was dead set on becoming a ballerina, but when they dropped me off and left, I cried myself to sleep. In the morning, I cried, I dried my tears, I had breakfast, I went back to my room, I cried, I changed into my ballet clothes, I dried my tears and did my day. While I was training, the music was a soothing influence, but afterward, the crying jag started all over again. I didn’t see anybody else crying so I hid my sadness. It wasn’t until I grew up that I realized we were all so ashamed of crying, we hid it from each other. It would have been a healing balm to cry together but we were too young and programmed to soothe each other. We could barely soothe ourselves.
The pain of trying not to cry is worse than the pain of what is causing it, but we are often too humiliated to let anyone see it. As a ballet dancer, I was lucky I had an outlet. I gripped the ballet barre, put my legs in first position, let the music soothe me and I danced out the depth of my emotions. I let my sorrow mix with the music and
eventually, I didn’t know which was which. At a very young age, I came to understand that if I stayed in the moment and stopped thinking about how I might feel after class or if I would cry when I was in my room that night, I not only felt better. I also became a better dancer.
Buddhism teaches us that wisdom exists within our emotions. When we struggle with our feelings instead of being compassionate with ourselves, we are missing a chance to know our truth. Transformation occurs when we move toward emotional distress without condemning or justifying. I knew a woman who was on a blind date. The man took her to a fancy restaurant and they were seated in a booth at the front of the room. They were engaged in
a conversation when they touched on a sensitive topic. It brought the woman to tears.
“Stop crying,” her date whispered. “Someone will see you.”
She gazed at him unapologetically and said through her tears, “I’ve cried in better places than this.”
It’s clear that we’re meant to cry or we wouldn’t have tear ducts. According to research, crying releases endorphins that help ease both physical and emotional pain and it cleans our eyes. Perhaps knowing these things can help us see that crying is nothing to be
ashamed of. It’s a way to be with ourselves with love and acceptance. There is a famous saying, “The only way out is in.” The road to transformation is bumpy and filled with tears but it offers us relief and compassion as we go along.
There is a sacredness in tears. They are not a sign of weakness, but rather of power. They show us our humanity. They speak more eloquently than words and they help us connect to our fellow
travelers. Tears are messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition and of unspeakable love. We cry for joy. We cry for sorrow. We cry for others and we cry for ourselves. When we cry, instead of apologizing, we could use our tears to find hope in the midst of our sadness.
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