I'm not crying, you're crying.

Last week I found myself lying in the fetal position in the middle of the floor in the dark, my cheek starting to adhere to the wood as the mixture of snot and tears had begun to make a paste and dry as my tears receded back into their tear ducts. It was at the moment when I felt the paste start to thicken that I decided to get up, clean and dry my face and the floor, much to my own relief (and I believe Bleecker’s - she was unsure what the hell was going on).

Let me back up and tell you how I ended up crying on the floor, besides the obvious that in a slightly dramatic fashion (and sadly unobserved by anyone but my dog, Bleecker) I just laid down and sobbed for twenty minutes. As in, wracked with grief, wailing. It was pathetic and glorious at the same time. The flood gates had released, and this is why:

It had been a hard week - my father and I had butted heads and then reconciled, in a way that was true to the beautiful, complicated nature of our relationship. Just a day or two after one of the best, most honest and open conversations my dad and I have ever had, we had a scare that his kidneys might have been starting to fail. Looming over our heads was also my brother Matt’s imminent departure - he had to leave in a few days to go home to Switzerland to work - which meant every thing was weighted with “the last time (blank) will happen”. At the top of that list was a dinner we had which was the last time me, my brother, my mom and my dad would ever be together as the four of us. My core family unit, only whole one last time. It was a lot: ups and downs, with a lot of fear and sadness underlying it all.

I’ve tried my best to logic and philosophize my way out of all of this; I have hoped that someone else’s words or experiences would help me avoid, or at least ease, the pain of losing my dad and watching him die. The fact of the matter is that the pain is mine to experience and I have to go through it - nothing (not even wine!) can take that away. The only way out is through. But I do think that what I have taken from the words of others is that I can allow myself to fully lean into the pain because I know I won’t get lost in it forever. I know there’s a time for heavy grieving, but eventually the hurt will change and be different as life goes on. I have found a lot of comfort from a Rainer Maria Rilke poem:

Let everything happen to you:

Beauty and terror.

Just keep going.

No feeling is final.

These big emotions made me curious as to why humans emotionally cry - we are the only beings that do that. This isn’t the crying that happens when you accidentally step on your dog’s foot - that’s physical pain (ok, I admit I cry then, I’m so, so SORRY). It’s partly a non-verbal signal of distress to other humans, to elicit help and assistance. But then why do we cry into our pillows alone at night after your boyfriend breaks up with you? There’s no one there to hold you then. We cry because it feels good, it’s an emotional release. It’s a natural human response to the human condition.

Most days don’t involve lying on the floor sobbing. Sometimes it’s a different flavor, like watching a movie with a glass of wine in had, tears silently streaming down my face, punctuated occasionally by a gulp to catch my breath.

But other days, most days, I find it’s like rafting a river, navigating rapids of sadness, panic or anger every so often in between moments of ease. In those rough times I rely on a small mantra given to me by Julia Cameron - “each moment, taken alone, is bearable”. I think about the fact that wherever I am, I am healthy, I am safe, I have my dog, or anything else that tells me I am ok in that moment. And I keep repeating that until I’m around the bend, still in the raft, head above water. Well, if I’m honest, maybe not always in the raft, but my head IS above water.

So I say this: let everything happen to you. Cry. Laugh. Smile. It’s what makes this life bearable and what makes it beautiful. Just keep going.