Just another day. Just another holy day. Today was sunny and warm and beautiful. In a state that just moved out of drought last year, and then only after unending months of record rainfall, we as a people are not entirely pleased with this January sun. We watch the evening weather report with worry and curse at the high pressure ridges that move in and send all our storms to Colorado. We love the sun, we do. We are Californians, after all. But these days, as we pass each other on the street, we say, “Beautiful weather!” and then quickly add, “But we need the rain!”
“We need the rain” is our continuing California anthem. The fires that recently raged out of control in Southern California only reinforced this.
Today was another beautiful, sunny day without my Mom. I have not fully accepted that all days will be like this now. I think of her often. Just the other day, when I burned my finger on the stove, I heard her say, “Run some cold water on that.” So I did.
People out and about ask me how I am. This is normal in our culture. “How are you?” to someone in grief, though, is not a safe question.
At the Toyota dealer, the service advisor asked, “How are you?,” but only after telling me about himself. “I am having a bad day,” he said, as I walked up to the counter. “People!” he said, as if that explained it.
I think this might be a service advisor sales technique. Maybe he hoped that I was having a bad day, too, and that we could commiserate together about how difficult it was to be out in the world, dealing with the public, who were so annoying. Of course, I would realize that he didn’t mean me. I wasn’t annoying. I was his unannoying friend. And if my friend the service advisor suggested that I would truly benefit from the upgraded service package (engine conditioner, anyone?) how could I say no?
I think that he was surprised when I started to cry.
It is awkward to cry at the Toyota dealer service counter.
I am learning, though, that tears are a grieving person’s friend. They make space around you; people tend to look away from you and leave you alone. It’s embarrassing to cry in public, but it gives you breathing room.
In my case, at the Toyota dealer, my tears got me out of the upgraded service package. When I’m crying, I can’t speak. I can’t answer questions. There is only blubbering and snot coming out of my nose and mascara running down my face. The service advisor dialed back his sales pitch. It was a blessed relief.
I’m thinking that it might not be a bad thing if we had a little more crying in our culture. God knows there are plenty of reasons for grief now. But all of us are trying so hard to keep it together. To look like we are OK and handling things very well, thank you so much. It’s what we share on Facebook and Instagram. We are all OK. Better than OK, actually. We had fantastic holidays and traveled to beautiful places and prepared amazing meals. We exercised regularly. We set goals and met them and are making the world a better place just by being in it.
But really? Is anyone OK? The planet is dying, the oceans are choked in plastic, our relationships are falling apart, we are in debt, we have a reality show star as a president, and there’s all this stupid sunny weather in what should be one of our rainiest months.
Not OK.
What would happen if we stopped being afraid of our tears? What if we stopped hiding them? What if we made it a point to cry in public, at least once or twice a month, especially when we were having bad days and feeling crummy or the president Tweeted about his big nuclear button? Maybe holding it together so well is part of the problem. Maybe the path out of the dark starts with tears.
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