We cry for so many reasons. Sadness. Joy. Pain. Awe. Surprise. Empathy. Fear. Compassion.
Tears cleanse our fragile eyes and heal our broken hearts. In fact, I recently learned there are three different types of tears — basal, reflex and psychic. Basal tears lubricate, protect and hydrate the cornea. The reflex variety responds to dust, irritants and allergens. And psychic tears are associated with our strongest emotions, designed to help us release profound sorrow, as well as overwhelming joy. I think this mysterious dual purpose of emotional tears is a metaphor for the journey of grief and perhaps, life.
Just as I was sitting down to write a journal entry, Linda, one of my oldest and dearest friends texted me a fascinating article about tears in the Smithsonian Magazine — and a wish for me more tears of joy today. Turns out, they are the exact same thing but perform different tasks. Since I embrace synchronicity, I clicked.
The microscopic images of all three types of tears peppered the article — depicting an entire lifetime, a complex universe in a single droplet of liquid. Oh, the stories they tell. As the article suggests, all the images look like “aerial views of emotional terrain.” Distant, elegant and provocative. That is so Elliot. Immediately, a rush of memory saturates my heart and then trickles down my cheeks. He adored World War I aircraft from day one — mastering the Red Baron computer game as a toddler and scrutinizing ceiling fans as if they were propellers as an infant.
I suspect Elliot was always meant to fly.
These maps are so dense, intricate and difficult to decipher. They all are a tangle of jagged paths, circuitous routes, and sharp corners . . . ins and outs, dead ends and drop-offs. Ah, this is the true journey of grief, and perhaps, maybe, of joy? That is why everything — even the so-called “happy” memories are as cloyingly bitter as they are sharply sweet — piercing my heart as they sometimes bring fleeting wisps of comfort to my weary soul. They are inextricably intertwined, like a strand of DNA. Is that the new definition of moving through grief — moving with grief? Finding a way to experience both love and excruciating pain at the very same time — as one? Still not so sure about the joy part. But there is grace in it.
No matter what, this is a brave new world, uncharted terrain and an unknown land. How can I possibly know what it would take to feel safe to live with this pain — when I barely know what I want for lunch? And then I question that decision. I think it’s about being fully present and mindful. It requires relentless self-compassion and intentional awareness — moment to moment, breath to breath, tear to tear . . . and heartbeat to heartbeat.
It’s the only way.
For my dear son, always in my heart — Elliot Everett Wright (5/17/1992 – 8/5/2018)
Elaine Gantz Wright 
Well I just love your writings. And you are the only other person I know, who knows about the “Book of Tears”. Since I skew to the visual it was “eye opening” to me when I bought it awhile ago. I have tried to share it with others – with limited success. But your approach in bringing its message to others experiencing grief is so much more powerful.
Thank you Elaine.
I have no idea how difficult this time is for you. I am not a parent. But I do know that your love for your son shines in all that you share.
Thank you.
Mary Clutts mclutts@sbcglobal.net
Mary, apologies for the extreme tardiness of this reply.I am deeply touched by your words. I find that writing is very healing and revelatory for me through this darkest of days. Thank you so much for taking the time to leave this moving comment. Hope you are well. Warm regards, Elaine
It kills me to say that I share the pain of losing an adult child. My oldest of 4 very recently passed on September 5. I’m so lost and grieving so heavily that it’s sickening. You’re truly an inspiration for me. I hope writing becomes healing for me one day. I know it was for my Jace. He journaled every downfall, accomplishment, happiest, saddest, darkest time he went through and anything else you can think of. Out of the thousands of composition notebooks I recently found a journal from age 4. Sometimes I feel like…ugh…I don’t know….if I Hope or pray or wish hard enough that my baby will come back. Sounds so stupid but, I’m not ready to accept it….not yet.
Aimee, your comment touches me deeply. There are no words to ease your pain, and there will be no end to your wish to see your Jace walk through the door. Our precious children are always with us. It’s just so hard right now. The grief is all there is. I believe finding his journal is like receiving a wink or a smile from him. So, so bittersweet, but these moments are the glimmers of grace we need to go on. Lots of love.
Reblogged this on Elaine Gantz Wright and commented:
This has been a week of tears–all varieties and chemical compounds. In a sacred time with Spiritual Director Fran Shelton, I remembered this post from two years ago–almost to the day. Seems apropos.