Someone close has just knifed me in the heart with a sharp edge. Sometimes, words cut deeper than any blade ever could. Brutus, I thought you were a brother. The shock of the blow empties me of breath as I stagger back into the darkness. Hot tears are the only warmth that escape out of my icy cold, tensed corpse. They seek to warm my sallowed cheeks, pooling in the crevice of my lips. I open slightly and drink them in like some thirsty beggar in search of a blanket to keep himself warm from the night that is long and the cold that is vast.

My chin trembles somehow trying to ground itself in movement as a reminder that I’m still here and that I have agency. The trembling serves as an act of rebellion against the numb paralysis that threatens to consume me and envelop my sinking spirit. I heard somewhere once that the Inuit people in the Arctic kept themselves active, in continual exercise to generate heat and stave off the cold. 

Overhead, layered shades of grayed twilight mold, meld, melt and merge into one another inviting the onlooker to try and distinguish them all, sharpening precision and along with it, a freeing mental clarity. I am safe. I am here. It will be okay. I hug myself, wrapping the poor lamb into a warm embrace of love. Soothing, cooing, shaking, weeping.

⬼ ❀❀❀ ⤗

It’s a wonder that tears are so: two long rivers of varied length; long of current, long of speed. They’re soft, not sharp; salty, not fresh; flowing in the form of liquid, not gas. It’s a wonder they’re water and salty water to boot—giving life and providing healing. 

Tears don’t pop out as solids, they’re not thorns that pierce the skin as they fall; neither are they long lines of yarn that might curl into a coil at the foot of the weeper. They’re not dark Japanese ink, staining surface with venomous tenacity, nor are they odorous like rancid milk, filling up the space with unpleasantness and nose scrunching disdain. No. 

It’s a wonder that tears are more like the clear, clean dew drops on a blade of glass, sliding off onto the ground below and watering the seedling that is peaking out. They absorb down, sinking into earth and providing nourishment. They come out warm, like tea fresh off the kettle and they remain part of the source from whence they came. They don’t seek to flee, but rather provide a sort of safe haven to the crier like a cocoon to a caterpillar. The moisture marks a sort of transformation, a symbol of release. From caterpillar to butterfly, tears represent a powerful inner process of emotion to resolve. A silver sword must be melted to be turned into a spoon.

The act of weeping is a pouring forth or a pouring out of oneself like anointing oil from a flask. It’s an unleashing, a letting go, a cleansing, a rebirth—a baptism. 

Overhead, a chrysalis is peeled open and the butterfly, now fully formed, flies off freely in the light of the sun. 

⬼ ❀❀❀ ⤗

I fall asleep and awake, soaked by continually pouring tears which trace their path along my cheeks, reassuring in their own way. 

I carry myself out of bed and pull clothes on, tears continually bubbling out. I take myself to the mirror and begin to laugh and blubber as I take stock. Here is what we are working with today: puffed, swollen eyes with red above and black below, watered cheeks and a pale, hollow face. Wear your vulnerability high and chin up, my dear. I smile-grimace and walk myself back out. No need for makeup today. 

Alighting on the bike, I let the sun soothe my sorry self, basking in the light—wheels turning, heart racing, hope climbing. Sometimes just getting outside is enough to make one’s spirit jump start.

I land in Madrid’s Opera, making my way to a flash of wavy, blond sticking out in the crowd. She’s taking pictures and watching the crowd. Seeing her causes tears to pool once again in my tired, deadened eyes. With closeness comes relief. I sit myself down beside her and start weeping. She wraps me close seeming to know exactly what I need. I splutter out the source of the tears and collapse back into her arms. I’m home. She makes a joke and gets a laugh out of me. Next thing we know we’re both laughing. I’m still crying but this double release of sobs and guffaws is like food to a hungry stomach. The brunt of the storm has passed and the sun shines radiantly overhead. 

We go on a long walk down to the gardens of the Royal Palace to spy on rabbits, run in the grass and explore all the nooks and crannies all the while pretending that we are royalty and this is our grand estate. We are two important ladies out on our hunting grounds looking at the birds, chasing away the pigeons and feeling the bark of the trees under our hands, finding any itches and scratching them away. We talk and smile, talk and giggle, talk and dance. Two souls in the Garden of Eden, soaking up the goodness and beauty of it all. There are moments that change you forever; this is such a one. A little softness goes a long way, a little empathy gives ten-fold and a tight squeeze makes an imprint.

⬼ ❀❀❀ ⤗

Later that morning, I take myself to visit two other friends. Still sad, but more grounded. My friend opens the door and immediately senses something is off. Upon asking if I’m ok, the pooling tears rear their soppy heads once more and I’m immediately whisked into a fierce hug. My other friend beckons me onto the balcony outside as he puts on the kettle for tea. 

They both sit me down on covered bench, wrapping me in swaddling cloths of fuzzy blanket. One of my friends takes my hand, soothing me; the other brings a warm compress, placing it on my belly and taking my other hand. I recount what happened and with each word start to feel better. Like confined, stale air seeking escape, the words bubble out of me finding healthy release with two compassionate hearts. My pain becomes their pain. They manage to coax some laughs out of me and embrace me, helping me to come out of my shell slowly like a naked mole-rat out of his hole after a long winter’s hibernation. 

There’s something really beautiful about deep friendship that is as balm to an open wound, I think to myself as a butterfly flutters past the balcony, stuttering against the wind yet still flapping with flair. I take a sip of my warm tea and smile.