Real men don't eat quiche and Real men don't cry. Despite the fact that both can be healthy and nourishing, real men are encouraged to avoid such inappropriate and pathetic shows of emotion. And, by extension, those who aspire to be as strong as real men regardless of gender should also not cry. Never. Ever.
This belief, squarely off in left field or beyond, persists despite scientific evidence that builds to the contrary. Crying heals. Crying releases sadness, grief, anxiety, and frustration. Crying intensifies feelings of joy and relief. Crying cleanses pent up negative emotions, preventing them from manifesting as physical illness, discomfort, pain, and disease. Tears from crying carry stress hormones, eliminating them from the body. Crying causes breathing and heart rate to drop, enabling the body to enter into a calmer state. With all these benefits, crying should be a free, accessible, and widely used miracle drug.
Yet, so many of you hold back the tears anyway. I am not one of you, in part because when my tears come, they don't seem to respond to my instructions and mandates to do otherwise. They just come strolling out my eyes, with purpose in hand, bound and determined to release me from whatever grip my emotions have over me. The aftermath, of course, is quite messy. In spite of feeling relieved, calm, destressed, and ready to tackle whatever problem led me to my tears in the first place, I still have to live with puffy, half-closed eyes, breathing through a nose that is one big stuffed up struggle, and whatever make-up issues require immediate renovation. And, if I dare to look in the mirror and look at what has happened to my face, I may start to cry all over again.
Despite the buildup and the unfortunate cosmetic aftermath, tears themselves take so many types of trails from where they begin deep inside my heart, through my troubled eyes, and down the sides of my countenance. Trails of tears are complicated, but each fit of tears seems to have its own journey from start to finish.
There are tears that issue so spontaneously in a fit of frustration over traffic, a difficult colleague, or an overloaded schedule that there is barely a moment to take cover and hide them from a society that is at best uncomfortable with them and at worst, disparaging. These trails are easy and ready strolls, like one takes out the front door of a cabin into the nearby woods during a morning of rest and relaxation. The tears come freely, flow for a brief while, and then stop, leaving a fresh perspective toward whatever frustration inspired them.
There are tears that lay stuck, refusing to stream forward, building into a stinging pain behind the eyelids before finally eking forward, slowly and painstakingly, each leaving a single trail down the face as a testimony of its character and concern. These are the tears that emerge from a deeply troubled soul, over tragedy or loss that has no rhyme or reason whether in the inner circle or life or far away in global events. These trails are won only with difficulty and patience, and their release allows for waking up in the morning with hope and glimpse into a brighter future. These trails are the last muddy, rocky, impossible stretches above the tree line and upward to the summit of the mountain, where a little bit of rest and a 360 degree view make the arduous ascent more than worthwhile.
There are tears that come when anger finally breaks into whatever underlies it. These tears bring more than just physical relief by bursting the dam which held the tension back in a seemingly calm and measured facade. They bring relief in awareness of what was creating the anger, regret at what damage the anger may have wrought, and determination to do it all better the next time. These trails are the ones taken when any trail will do, any trail that gets one moving, walking, and working through the aches, pains, and tensions that periodically hamper ordinary everyday movement.
And the list of trails continues. As life goes on, there seems to be no corner of my often rocky heart, no space inside the forest of my soul that remains unexplored by the simple act of shedding tears.
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