BY CECILIA ROSE
Please, don’t hand me a tissue when my eyes swell and the tears flood my face. Who are you trying to comfort? You or me?
I need to let my tears out and I need you to feel into my moist, dank depths that need to free the dregs of grief. I don’t want to sponge that away or somehow make it easier for you to bear. I want to let it out and I want you to feel the power of it, too.
I want the tears to roll down my cheeks, steaming, blazing from the hot spring of sadness that is gurgling out of my membranes.
I want to feel the wet drops of grief pouring down my face, cleansing my spirit of the bone, fur and feather my stomach isn’t able to digest. This primordial urge to secrete a pellet or a tear wells up from a forsaken spring to a flute song from a forgotten time.
I want to feel the damp, hot release on my shirt, clinging to my chin and cascading…. for however long this pool of hurt and sadness needs to rage.
I want to fury with wet, salty spurts of tears, raining out this grief like the clouds, a geyser or a growth spurt. As natural as the drive to procreate, to spread seed or liberate an egg, this release is a salty, wet mess of kindling that will flame the evolution of me.
So when I see the shadow of my past, the right juxtaposition of wispy white hair shrouding the dim flicker of life beneath debilitated eyes on a random street corner somewhere, hold my hand as I cry.
Don’t hand me a tissue or work to stop the flow of briny mourning that fights to emancipate the pain that I’ve carried, even though I know you’re trying to comfort me.
Sit and listen as my body heaves with a tidal rush of oceanic grief and my mind flutters with images of the color of my father’s skin when he took his last breath. When he left a mysterious hole in my existence. Marvel with me at the heat, the salt, the release, and the well from which these feelings spring – this impenetrable mystery woven in a flute song that binds us all together.
I have given myself permission to let go – to exhale effluvium, discharge alkali, liberate the holding and the ache, and the sadness juice of throbbing anguish that flows with colors, smells, sensation and knowing.
Will you walk by my side and feel this immense pulse that has or will leverage its feathers, rhythm and elemental force on you too?
Will you be a witness to the evolution of energy that transfers from my ancestral tap root to the pulsating flowering of my being?
These mineral tears, from soil and spring, represent life both present and past. Let us be still and feel their revelation.
For more self-study, The Urban Howl recommends The Inner Voice of Love: A Journey Through Anguish to Freedom.
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