the kind of crying that comes from transition
 
I’ve cried more in the month of July than I have in the past 12 months. It’s not the kind of crying that comes from grief and sadness, the one that makes sense. It’s the kind of crying that comes from transition and inevitable release, the kind that bubbles up out of nowhere and leaves me snotty-nosed with silent tears running down my face.
 
The first time it happened in the middle of a restaurant. I was sitting there, waiters dancing all around us, describing to my new love how my little house in the jungle was the first place in almost 10 years that felt completely home, completely mine, and how precious that is to me.
 
This is the first time in my life I have lived alone in a space that feels like mine. Before, I always felt like a guest in someone else’s home or dream. Now, for the first time in my life, I am spending long expanses of time entirely alone. There’s an intimacy developing, a sovereignty, a discovery of how the light falls in my soul and illuminates corners of my self. There’s a new benchmark here now. My entire life is rising up to meet it.
 
Suddenly a rush of tears and at the exact same moment a waitress spins forward with a cocktail arriving before me in a cloud of dry ice. I giggle-snort my way through the awkward downpour on my face in response to something that actually makes me really happy.
 
The second time we are in the car. He is driving, teasing me that I’m always asking for more space to be alone. I take it as a personal attack. Nothing is more precious than my space and time to me and immediately the tears fall down my face as I try to explain how exquisitely meaningful it is to me to spend expanses of time alone. I don’t like having to rationalise or justify myself. I just want to feel understood.
 
The third time is less than 20 minutes later when we arrive at my house. I walk up the stair and unlock the front door and suddenly feel the familiar pressure of salty fluids pressing up against my eyeballs. I want to turn away and run and hide so I go and shower but while I’m in there nothing comes. I conclude my personal little rainstorm has passed.
 
As soon as I step out of the bathroom my heart feels like it wants to break and a torrential waterfall of emotion is pressing at my face. I turn to him and say “I don’t know why but I really need to cry. Can you please hold me?” and he tucks me into his arms as I sob.
 
That was just the first week.
 
There’s been many more times since then. And while my mind tries desperately to cling to some stories to make sense of my sudden emotionality, there is a wisdom that lies deeper within me, encouraging me to just let go and cry.She knows, that intuitive deeper wisdom of mine, that this is the integration of transformation.
 
There is no purer form of release that the tears shed from one’s own body enabling old patterns to disintegrate and dissolve. What I am moving through right now is a hard resetting of my entire understanding of who I thought I was. It leaves me feeling both incredibly vulnerable and, at very the same time, powerful.
 

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