Crying does not come easy for me. It’s not that I don’t try to display my emotions in a measurable way. I guess that I am just an emotionally moderate individual. I can’t recall the, second to, last time that my tear ducts were overcome with a flood of anything. I worried that my eyes were desolate; ducts depleted. Yet,the phenomenon took place at the culmination of our time out west.
The summer in L.A. concluded as abruptly as it began and continued. Visiting friends and family, learning new skills and eating, longed after, food, all sandwiched with traffic, city stress and different characters, left me spent. Two weeks would have been sufficient. After two years of peace (corps) and one year in this tranquil mountain range, the hustle and bustle of L.A. was overwhelming. Two months was a lot, to say the least.
Returning to the lacrimation. The catalyst of this change was my mother. The dark morning, as we packed the last bit of our things, was calm. I gave my mom a voluminous hug. I was going to miss my mom and wanted to make sure that she knew it. We embraced under the sheathed stars, with much emotion. As we separated, I felt how, I assume, she was feeling. A healthy concoction of sadness, happiness, anger and worry. I am coming to realize that all of these emotions are important and need to be balanced in order to be beneficial.
Barely seeing someone, especially my mom, for three years helps me realize how much value I place on them and our relationship. I, wholeheartedly, cherish my mom. I only, have yet to figure out how to display it without it getting lost in translation.
So that’s where the dam was opened.
Since then, there hasn’t been much precipitation falling from the dark clouds of my eyes. The few times that I’ve noticed a drizzle coming in, are usually after reading an emotional part of a book. The tears and the feelings that are evoked are ones that have been worded in such a way, that they resonate with something inside of me. Joy, sadness, surprise…
Stories can really unlock the things that are suppressed due to different factors.
The latest story being “Sahara Special” by Esme Raji Codell. I was reading it to figure out what would be read in class this year with my fourth/fifth graders. The situations, the love, the hurt and the humor that was relayed hooked me and pulled me in. I cried at parts that some might look at and think I was crazy. I can’t tell you what parts, because I don’t want to ruin the story (but really, I don’t want you to think I’m too sensitive).
I read Maya Angelou’s autobiographies this summer. She had me laughing and crying, living and dying with her tellings. “King Leopold’s Ghost” by Adam Hocschild, evokes an anger so deep, that I have yet to finish it, for fear of not being able to climb back out. So I supplement with books like, “The Kite Fighters” by Linda Sue Park, to see if a trip across the Pacific and back in time could lift me into the windy sky.
I’ve gone all over the place, here. Tears, my mom and books.
In conclusion, It’s not as hard for me to cry, but I still have a long way to go across these salty waters. This is probably a surprise to Evelyn, because the expressing of emotions is is not high on my list of aptitudes. But she needs for me to do more of that. Being a late bloomer, when it comes to leisurely reading, is a blessing. The stories that are out there are innumerable and I hope to download an innumerable amount more. And, Mom, I love you and miss you and can’t wait to see you in November!
Wisdom, strength, tolerance, patience and love, ya’ll!