Regarding My Tears

My last entry elicited a number of consoling responses.  That didn’t surprise me one bit.  You, Dear Readers, have long endeared yourselves to me.  How can one not be touched by those who so sweetly and generously offer consolation so readily?

It’s true, I’ve been rather quiet of late.  There’s no point in hiding from the fact that winter drear hangs heavily on a melancholic such as I.  It has taken me a goodly number of years to comprehend depression.  I’ve learned to cope...for the most part.  But there will always be that elemental impulse to withdraw into solitude when days grow dark and chill.

It’s been just over six months since Amazing Woman died.  Cold rain fell.  Days grew short.  Came the bitter freeze.  In the months that followed, more friends lost those whom they held dear.  All this is to be expected in the seventh decade when close friends are every bit as grizzled and frayed as I.

I attended a wedding in January.  Lost an aunt in March.  Fretted my way through the “stolen car incident” and shed a tear when Sylvie, my funky, furry little Ghandi, breathed her last.

I've cried.

The point I wish to make is that I rarely cry from self-pity or personal wounds.  I couldn’t say that a half-decade ago.  But those days are fading in my rear-view mirror.  This heart of mine, chambers once over-flowing with razor blades and shards of glass, was immolated in a cauldron of my own devise (though other hands often stoked the fire).  What poured from the crucible was new material, something somewhat purified, material to be forged and tempered.  This process of forging and tempering continues, but I’ve no cause to scream...or cry.    

Janis sang: “freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.”  I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around the notion decades ago.  I get it now. 

Nowadays I mostly cry for others.  I cry for Amazing Woman’s son, for those she strived to teach and help.  I cry for friends who’ve lost cherished family members.  I cry for my uncle, left stranded and struggling in his ninth decade.  I cry for the bereft and forlorn.  I cry for the gentle animal soul, and the young couple embarking on a life together, blissfully unaware of the challenges to come.

Much as I revel in hugs (and I most assuredly do), know that I cry for reasons poignant, for all that must be acknowledged, respected and revered.

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