Well, evidently not, because here we
are again.
This time I was thinking about it
because I found myself crying last night for over an hour and it
would be easy to skip talking about it. Not because, “Men don't
cry,” or because... well, just because. It's a pretty sensitive
thing to talk about it, and I don't see a lot of columnists
mentioning it, let alone focusing on it. But, I do and say many
things others don't and so...
Here's the thing... I couldn't figure
out what was upsetting me so much. When I say I was crying, I mean
cryyyy----ing, sobbing, blowing my nose frequently, the works- the
water works, ha ha.
I kept running reasons through my head.
We lost another long-time friend to cancer this week. We had been close friends in New York for about seven years, and did lose touch when we moved up here and they moved to Florida. But, then, that's one plus in the Facebook v. Facebook argument. It does help keep you aware of what old friends are up to. We always knew he was there, but now he's not.
But, no, the crying didn't seem to be
about that. Nor did it seem to be about our friend Neil who left us
just last week. He is missed and will continue to be, obviously, and,
just as obviously, Facebook isn't going to help us with this one.
So, no, not that. I had coffee with
Cindy's brother yesterday and, while we didn't really talk about her
and her struggle per se, it was still right there. It always is when
we talk, or at least, it's never far away. He's a wonderful person to
be with because I don't have to explain... anything. Nothing. He
understands my moods and my reactions to him, based on how I feel at
any given moment, so there's nothing to explain.
I also had coffee with my friend
Dollie's son-in-law. (I don't really drink all that much coffee. It
was just one of those days and, God forbid we should just get
together somewhere without a beverage being involved.) In truth, in
the end, it seemed like everyone was OK with Dollie's leaving us; she
had done enough.
So, still going through my list, trying
to sort it out. Part of it was probably about losing Kenzie, since
that was still so fresh in my heart. Also, we adopted another cat
from the Humane Association, so that opened a lot of wounds. This was
the first cat Sheri has had, rather than a kitten, so that's
different. He's almost three years old and was destined, I think, to
be moved from shelter to shelter since he's huge (15 pounds) and had
most of his hair shaved off because it had been so matted. My head
and his butt feel about the same when I rub them. I can empathize
with his hair loss. I anticipate becoming friends.
But that wasn't it either. These were
older tears, coming from deep inside; so deep inside that I thought I
might actually throw up while they were spilling out. So, the crying
was at least in part for Sheri and me. All that we've been through-
so much loss, so much pain, but so much love as well. Hell, if we
didn't love each other so much, and all those others I've mentioned
as well, I guess, there wouldn't be much need to cry, old or new
tears.
After a while, though, it occurred to
me that I was missing the point. I was crying because I needed to.
There was healing to be done, and crying was an essential part of it.
In our experience, that is where healing can truly begin and where it
gets to grow and bring a new and essential piece, or pieces, to your
life. We are truly works in progress, and, as with building or
growing anything, that means plenty of breakage and lots of, “Hmmm.
Does this part go there?”
At some point, I realized that the need
to find a reason for crying could be found only by taking a trip in
the Way Back Machine. When I was a kid, around our house, if you were
going to cry, you'd better have had a darned good reason why. In
Scotland, crying was called greeting, or maybe that was just around
Glasgow, where I lived. But, I can still hear my mother saying “Whit
are ye greetin' for? Keep it up and I'll gie ye somethin' to greet
aboot.” Sometimes you had the chance to think, other times you
didn't. It appears having a reason just became part of my DNA.
And, when all else is said and done... “It's my
party and I'll cry if I want to.”
There are a variety of versions of
the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in
all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a
young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of
manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to
the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man.
With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere
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