I just left my first Al Anon meeting. As I walked across the parking lot, I felt tears streaming down my face. The wind cooled and dried them on my skin and I realized that the sensation of tears was surprising to me. How long had I felt tears on my cheeks? I cry. Don't get me wrong. Oh do I cry. I cry at sad or cute animal videos, I cry at every birth I attend, I cry saying good-bye to my kids and grand babies. I cry because music touches me. The written word can bring me to my knees. I cry from the situation I've allowed myself to walk in to. I cry from exhaustion and from frustration. But here's the thing: I never let the tears FALL. I never let them complete their journey down my cheeks, cleansing my heart as they roll. I head them off with an impatient swipe of the hand; I absorb them with a carefully place tissue (lest I smudge my makeup): I press and pat and dab so no traces of tears or sorrow show on my face. I take my three deep breaths, I shake out the thoughts from my head, flap my hands (Why?? I guess it somehow is a signal to myself that the crying is OVER. Back to it, Chick.) Oh, but this morning. I sat in my stuffy car in a church parking lot, having left a meeting in which I shared no more than my name, and I wrote this piece on the back of a flyer. I wrote through tears. They rolled, they ran down my chin, they hit the paper. I let them fall. It felt good. It FEELS good to know that I may be on a new road. The road to my own happiness and health again.
Maybe for the first true time. I am going to find out what my truth is and what my life holds. With my tears leading the way.