You can cry. As this is my last column of the semester, I give you permission to feel how you need to feel. Weeping is welcomed; dry, wrenching sobs are expected. Or, if you possess the rare talent of crying a dramatic, single tear down the middle of your cheek — do so. If your face needs to contort and your tears need to fall, don’t be afraid to let them,‑ preferably in public as you stroke this section of the paper lovingly. (But be warned: Stroking in a not-creepy fashion is a fragile skill. If you don’t possess it, the only way to get better at socially acceptable stroking is through practice. So you may as well start here.)
I was going to attend flying trapeze lessons for this column, but other greedy tourists got there first and filled up all the open slots. I felt all this pressure: LAST COLUMN OF THE SEMESTER — MUST IMPRESS! And I wracked my brain for what kind of bravery I could display for you lovely people. Wracking my brain isn’t a lengthy process, so I wracked it several times over.
Finally, I decided to let spontaneous courage come. And this Sunday morning, I was all bold in a way I ne’er had been before. (That was going to be a normal “never” but my keyboard is sassy and quite possibly a secret genius, because “ne’er” seems fitting now). So I went to The Gathering with my RA, the hilarious Grace Robertson, without actually knowing what it would be, beyond a church-like place where people … gathered.
I’ve been a Christian for a while. I talk to God — it’s this whole thing. But I’ve never cried at church before. I’m not a crier by nature — I’m much more comfortable laughing. Even when I’m sad, actually, I usually turn it into a joke and I used to equate that with strength. I was this strong person who could take rejection/depression/sadness and turn it into fodder for chuckles. But the truth is, feeling things the way you actually feel them is scary. Feeling them publicly is terrifying.
My mom is one of those tender souls who lives near tears always. Sweet commercial, touching moment — it happens and she’s a-crying. Pretty much every Sunday at church back home, she’d be wiping tears away in time for new ones to fall. My dad, on the other hand, I’ve never seen cry. Ever. His definition of being a man does not involve tears (although it does involve watching “Grey’s Anatomy”).
So, I don’t cry in front of people. But Sunday, I just felt it. Not sadness, but fullness, and it was like the only way to express it was to let some of that fullness spill out. Feel free to roll your eyes or smirk or some other third snarky thing. But I’ve realized lately that as wonderful and desperately needed as humor is, it should be used to tell the truth, not hide from it. Life is way too short to deny yourself the crazy, beautiful, miserable, wonderful magic of living authentically.
