Morning, friends!
One of the last times I cried while driving a car, I was whipping around the curves of Yellowstone Lake in a silver Mustang blasting Florence + the Machine. It was a good release cry, the primal type that Florence I’m sure would approve of someone having to her music. It was a lot like the kind I’d get when I would chant ‘om namah shivaya,’ during my teacher training and the vibration would catch in my throat before I realized it’d moved on to my tear ducts. Both of these are not unlike the kind that I still get when I listen to Weighty Ghost on my commute while walking through a busy D.C. street suspended completely in the rhythm of my gait. Of course, I still remember the first time I listened to the Bon Iver album, 22, A Million. I was somewhere on the metro crossing the Potomac River into Virginia when the wet stuff came down.
For me, movement caught in stillness met with music caught in silence is a recipe for tears. It’s a beautiful thing to know we are capable of being reduced to this state. I can’t imagine a better gift as an artist to know my work snuck up on someone’s neurons, tricked their brain into vulnerability, softened someone into their parasympathetic nervous system. Music is just a prayer set to chords. |
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Which is why I wasn’t surprised last week when my ride-share driver was brought to tears while driving me to the metro. We had struck up conversation and he’d started to share about his family: his wife had been in the hospital, he had two daughters, he was paying $50/day to rent this vehicle from the ride-share company so he could work to pay off the very car he needed to drive, plus the gas, and the long hours, and working for weeks straight without a day off. He said, God has blessed me so much, and he said some other things under his breath that I couldn’t entirely make out but still understood. And then, he started to pray. And then, he started to cry.
You know, I’m not great in most situations. I’m pretty terrible at parties (I’ll try and find the nearest dog to hang with), I get nerves galore when it comes to “real talk” with a romantic interest, and sometimes I suck at telling my friends and family how much I care about them.
But for some reason, I’m not uncomfortable when a stranger is in a tough spot and opens up—or cracks open. Because, I get it. I would cry, too, if I was stuck driving a car for 12+ hours a day with people who may often be so absorbed in their own lives that they don’t bother to speak to the person driving them. (I know, because at times I’ve been that person on their phone.) But for me, the rest of the world momentarily falls away when a human in my presence is experiencing that depth of emotion. There’s really no connection quite like it. Isn’t that the essence of our humanity? In that moment, I wondered when he’d last had time to digest, process, expel his grief, especially when he is working every day? This was his chance to do it.
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And then, as is the go-to line from strangers when they realize they’ve dared to show some degree of emotion in public, he tried to apologize. I told him not to be sorry, and I wanted to ask him, what was your prayer, but I didn’t. Just like the words under his breath, I understood enough.
Perhaps in my book it would translate from Florence a bit like:
You need a big god
Big enough to hold your love
You need a big god
Big enough to fill you up
Or from Bon Iver, perhaps:
All my goodness
(I'll be looking through your eyes)
All my goodness to show
(Why are you so far from saving me?)
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They say that we cry on planes—and likewise, in our cars at the end of a long day, or on a walk home, on the train—because of some element of transition from constant stressors into a moment of calm. Sometimes it happens following exercise. Sometimes it happens in transit. Sometimes, a prayer, or a song, can deliver us there. In that moment we shift from reaction into being, and that’s when our body says: OK, let it out. This is one way our bodies process, heal, and stay in balance. There's also research that says crying even helps regulate our breathing when we're under stress.
We are not always able to segment that off into privacy though, and we shouldn’t have to. Sometimes, we are the person letting it out. Sometimes, we happen to be there. I would like to imagine a world where the burden is eased for both of those people: That we can experience that moment of humanity and know, hey, life is unimaginably cruel sometimes, and if you need to cry right now you should do it. And I’ll just be here, and not just because logistically I can’t actually leave. If you want to talk after, that’s OK, too. Or we can just sit in the okay-ness of it, because we’re humans trying to get through this messy human experience but we aren’t alone.
Has this kind of thing ever happened to you? What was it like? Did you say anything at all, and what did that feel like? (It’s also OK if it made you want to crawl out of your own skin. It might mean that you’re an empath and easily absorb the emotions of people around you.)
Before getting out finally, I thanked my driver for the ride, and told him to get home safe. And he asked me to pray for him, and in my own words and ways, I did.
💖
Kelly
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Journaling Prompt ✍
When was the last time you cried? Was it in public? Private? What was it like and how'd you feel after?
If you can't remember the last time, might I suggest watching an episode of Queer Eye?
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💧Worth a read: tears edition 📚
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Retreat into your Intuition
You guys!! You should come to my upcoming yoga retreat. It's in the beauty of Shenandoah, Virginia from September 27-29. As an Om Weekly reader you'll get 15% off the listed rates. Honestly? This retreat can't happen without you. 💕 Deets are here. Let me know any questions. |
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