Tears are Summer showers to the soul. ~Alfred Austin, Savonarola
Last summer, in a forest chapel overlooking Lake Winnipesaukee, my 21-year-old son read an essay aloud to several hundred boys and their counselors at Camp Belknap. The trumpet called out over the water, and boys of all sizes emerged through the woods to sit together on hand carved benches, to listen as my son gave a talk entitled, “Tears”. This is what he said to them:
“While growing up, I never once saw the men in my family cry. Besides the occasional tear up after an injury, my dad and two older brothers never displayed their emotions in the form of tears. I desensitized myself, even if I wanted to cry, I couldn’t. The closest I ever came to crying was a tight knot in my throat. I believed tears to be a display of femininity…”
He then went on to describe how he learned to cry, as a teenager, in front of a campfire by the lake.
“I don’t recall exactly the conversation that took place, but I do remember that all of a sudden I began to cry. I felt comfortable. I knew that nobody would judge my masculinity. It felt good.”
He finished his essay by describing how it felt to finally release that tight knot in his throat at his grandmother’s funeral.
“For the first time, my dad broke down in front of me. When we embraced, both in tears, in the hospital, I felt closer to him than ever before. The following day, at the funeral service, my dad, brothers, and I didn’t hold back our sadness. I was able to release the tight knot in my throat that used to shield my tears. Since my grandmother’s funeral, I have felt a deeper connection to my family. I think seeing a person you love in such a vulnerable position can be extremely beneficial to a relationship… Gene, (the camp director), who I have seen cry many times throughout my years at camp, always says, ‘if you have a problem with me crying then that’s your problem, not mine.”
Crying is not a problem. It is a solution.”
Crying is a solution unique to humans. It binds us to each other. When my children were very young, I cried easily. I was often surrounded by clumps of tissues that looked like miniature snow capped mountains—a geography of tears. I cried at corny commercials on T.V., I cried if my eldest son acted brave, I cried, “because the world was so beautiful and life was so short.” The raw vulnerability of giving birth taught me the beauty of a heart cracked wide open. Infant boys cry more than infant girls and my baby boys proved the point. My husband looked on bewildered, and comforted us.
Then somewhere between preschool and first grade, each of my sons’ stopped crying. Like his brothers and his father, my youngest son learned to hold back his tears. He didn’t cry when he got hurt on the ball field, he didn’t cry when his brothers left for college, and he didn’t cry when my husband and I divorced. I, too, learned to hold back my tears, afraid that they would distress my son. Good mothers were strong. I certainly didn’t want them to feel like they had to take care of me.
What I know now is that parents, who cry easily and often in front of their children, especially fathers with their son’s, give their children permission to express all of their emotions. Shielding children from our tears makes them grow up with a tight knot in their throat, shielding them from their own tears.
If I could do it again I would have a home that was “tear safe”. A place where everyone, child and parent, male and female, could express all feelings wholeheartedly? When we feel safe with our own vulnerability, it is easier to stay present and compassionate with the vulnerability of others. As we grow more comfortable with our own feelings, we are less inclined to have to “rescue” others from their feelings. That way we won’t have the sad ending of The Boy Who Never Cried
Here are practices to help you make friends with your own vulnerability.
On The Mat—
Back bending and hip opening poses can help us feel more comfortable with our vulnerability. For your practice this week, try Frog, and modified camel. Start with cat/cow to warm up your back, and then warm up your hips with sun salutations that include runner’s lunge. After centering and warming up, move slowly into frog and hold for several slow deep breathes. Become aware of sensation and quietly sigh, “yes” on the exhale. Open and release as much as possible. Notice if any images come and just keep breathing with the sensations. Slowly come out of the pose and move into child’s pose. When you are ready, come onto knees, with your palms on lower back. Engage abdominal muscles; flatten the lower back by pulling the pelvic bone up toward the navel. Elongate the spine and open your chest toward the ceiling. Hold for three deep long breaths. Notice any sensations or feelings that may surface. If tears come, just notice and allow. Breathe through them and soften. Come back into child’s pose, allow energy to run up and down your spine. Come into svasana on your back, integrate the experience and let your breathing return to it’s own rhythm. Send some love to your heart and hips. See if you can appreciate your humanity, the tears, the laughter– the whole ball of wax.
Off The Mat—
Notice when you feel an urge to cry. Do you feel in your eyes, your throat, your chest? Is it tension, hard and tight or a soft spot that needs care. Do you give it expression or do you put the lid on? Just notice with curiosity. We live in a culture where it is more socially acceptable, especially for men, to walk around with a stiff upper lip. Would it be possible to allow full expression of the quivering lip and tears? When we allow ourselves that freedom, and don’t start spinning a story about “why” we “should” feel sad or vulnerable, the feeling often moves through quite quickly and our children see us feel deeply, recover and move on. What a beautiful lesson.
What do you think, is it a good idea for parents to cry in front of their children?
“May we all feel safe to shed tears, may we all feel open, may we all live wholeheartedly.”
Alison Rogers is a psychotherapist, yoga teacher and author living and practicing in Boulder, Colorado.
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