Sometime in 2009 (or thereabouts) my beloved and I decided we could see no future together. We were too different. Being long distance was too hard. The present was full of pleasure, but the uncertainty and seeming incompatibility unbearable. The ups and downs of trying to see a way forward too painful. So with mutual compassion we called if off. That night we drove a long empty stretch of highway. Just a twinkle of radio towers in the distance. Tears streamed down our faces as those lights got closer. The finality of the good-bye at the train station looming ahead. There were no more words. We’d said it all. We’d ripped off the band-aid. Just tears.
Those tears washed over us. Together we felt the pain in the silence and dark. A desolate road before us.
And I honestly don’t remember which of us said what, but after many miles we acknowledged we could just stop the car. Nothing was forcing us to decide anything, only our own discomfort with the present and no clear way forward. Stopping the car didn’t stop the pain, or the uncertainty, or even the tears.
The tears in our eyes laid bare our individual grief and longing for something else. What that something else could be took years and some excellent professional help to determine. And, we remain very much partners in life, not for life. Each day is a choice. A re commitment. As much as leaving is choice, so too is staying and engaging.
There have been many tears since and many more to come. They continue to show me where my heart is. When to pause. When ponder. And occasionally, even, when to proceed and in what direction.
This morning a song on the radio, or perhaps the stretch of highway, or perhaps something else entirely, brought this bittersweet memory to the forefront of my mind. And there it has stuck until I found a way to tell the story of those particular long, dry tears and why they still matter.
The last six weeks have been full of far more inexplicable tears. Unbidden wetness streaming down my cheeks. An inconvenient catch in my voice.
Then, last night, at last, catharsis.
On the stage there unfolded the timeless pain of personal desires and familial loss in the face of global tragedy and local injustice. The desire to do something, to hold on to something. The desire to sacrifice oneself, to leave the pain of living in this imperfect world. The haunting guilt of finding joy as so many suffer and die. And the music. And the movement. Those voices. I wept and it was good to weep.
After, exhausted, I felt lighter, my eyes clearer.
Art and performance made meaning of all the recent tears that have tumbled down my face, so uninvited. Sometimes in the shower. Sometimes stuck in traffic. Occasionally, as I try to make dispassionate conversation with friends and colleagues about my work and the state of higher education. Even, ridiculously, in the face of demonstrable success.
I’m not, I assure you, depressed or anxious. I do not feel particularly vulnerable. These tears are not weapons or defense mechanisms.
They are not for anyone else or even about any one else. They are mine alone.
They do not need to be fixed. I am not broken.
They tell me to pause and ponder. To be. I need not run. I need not avoid this particular pain.
I trust these tears.
Let them flow.
Liv Mariah Yarrow 