“Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.” – Kahlil Gibran
One of the many things I have noticed since I found my daughter four years ago (well, almost four years, as of June 28th) is that I cry. I cry alot and I cry often.
Oh, I dont cry about her. Well, not always. I cry at everything. Everything touches me deeply.
Today while relaxing in a park with Rich (my fiance) and my sons, I watched a soccer game being played by what appeared to be middle school girls in our new hometown. One of the girls kicked the ball HARD and it shot right towards, and hit (equally hard), another girl in the rib cage. The hit took her to her feet immediately. A second passes while those nearby her wait and within a few more seconds all the girls on the field drop to their knees and look towards the injured player. A coach type person comes out to the field to ask the girl how she is. She is clearly heaving from tears and pain. Coach waits a minute. Girl gets up, high fives the coach and the entire field of players and spectators start to clap.
And I start to cry. It was so beautiful and touching.
Last night, fiance and I watch Last Chance Harvey starring Dustin Hoffman and Emma Thompson. There are divorce dynamic scenes in that movie that are truly heartbreaking. Anyone that has endured divorce (as my fiance and I both have) will surely relate. No surprise, the scenes made me cry. So raw. So true. So painful. Even though Harvey Schine was a character in a film, I wanted to reach in and hug him.
I cry at music. I cry at TV. I cry at my sons expressing a kind gesture to a classmate. I cry at my fiance’s facebook status messages. I cry at status messages my mother leaves my niece who is currently studying in Paris.
One might likely jump to the assumption that I was always a cryer. They might even tell me they are a cryer as well.
I assure you. I was not always a cryer. Not in the least. In fact, I would say I was cold, unfeeling, flat, locked up, bitter and cold.
For me, this lacrimation is directly related to my reunion. And the oddball nerd part of me finds that rather intriguing and naturally had to go research it.
What I discovered, and perhaps what I have always known, is that my pain is proportionate to my joy. The more I hurt about my reunion, the more I grieve the loss of a daughter, the more I agonize, openly, over her pictures, her life that I am unable to share with her, the more I am able to love my sons, my fiance, my life.
Not surprising, I find this sentiment echoed in one of my favorite poets, Khalil Gibran.
“The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. “
It seems sadly and horribly ironic that the more my daughter rejects and avoids me, the more she hurts me, the more I am able to love others. The more pain I allow myself to feel, the more love I am able to give to others. The more I open my heart to the pain, the more I open it to love. Acknowledging and releasing the most painful demons in my soul makes room for the most beautiful angels.
My sorrow and my joy.
Together. As one.
Together. As me.
I have tried to stop the tears. I choke them back. The lump in my throat will constrict my airway. The holding back of tears makes my eyes hurt. I gasp. I turn away from people often. I dont want them to see how much I cry.
I have worried they are indicative of some sort of mental instability.
I think I just changed my mind about that. And Mr. Gibran influenced that as well.
“I would not exchange the sorrows of my heart for the joys of the multitude. And I would not have the tears that sadness makes to flow from my every part turn into laughter. I would that my life remain a tear and a smile…A tear to unite me with those of broken heart; a smile to be a sign of my joy in existence.”
I am going to cry at will.