There are many who physically cannot cry. Or at least have a terrible time of doing it, especially when they want to. The release that is all too much the burden of embarrassed softies doesn’t come as comfort to the hot ache of the soul remembering it is indeed not a body, and has one much too small.
It’s very easy for me to cry. I’m plenty good at it. In fact, movie trailer editors have me pegged. Emotions bubble up for me at every swell of epic music or smack of banter. I’m thankful every time that each preview is like a minute and a half long. If you sit next to me in a theater, you might think I’ve gotten up and left by how tightly I’ll be holding my breath.
It’s fascinating to think about our physical responses to, or manifestation of, emotional circumstances. I know little about the reverse train of physical-emotional-physical, but it’s strange to think each of us should by nature know the owner’s manual to our individual minds and bodies, but certainly don’t.
We’re often rendered helpless and confused by a whiff of a familiar scent, a particular way of describing something, or belongings we acquired in the midst of a hard time.
I’m thinking about the bittersweet burn of things loved and lost, and words whose meanings have seemed to leave, but shapes have built us stronger, more ergonomic to the strain of moving forward.
The breath shortened where your throat burns and your cheeks feel like a child’s. You don’t need a drink of water, but a cold jump wouldn’t hurt. And then it’s gone, and it’s incredible to be housed in such a finite object as earth, as flesh, as salt, as a rhythm of breathing.
The very existential pursuit of—the running—in a finite creature’s wandering bids hints at hope’s soaring warmth. It’s good to be alive and planted in the hands of that Hope.
iPhone photo taken by me at the Getty.