Cry, Cry, Cry

NOTE: Last week I mentioned that this week I was going to share my over the top passion for radio. But, best laid plans and all that, something more pressing has arisen. One of these days, I will tell the radio story.

CRY, CRY, CRY

Now I taught the weeping willow how to cry, cry, cry

And I showed the clouds how to cover up a clear blue sky

—Johnny Cash

Though I really have tried to unlearn the habit of over-explaining myself, as I was standing in the parking lot of the Discount Tire in Kyle last Friday, I felt it important to tell Ed, the very young man who had just assisted me, why I was crying. To my credit, I managed to stick to the short version, something about how I’d had a very hard week (yes, another one), and I was moved by his kindness.

In truth, there was so much more to it than that. And, in fact, the greatest kindness Ed had given me was this release of tears. For I had been unable to cry, and crying was really what I most needed to do.

Lisa the goat succumbed to her injuries last Tuesday. I had spent several days monitoring her, trying to diagnose her, trying to treat her. I had debated whether or not to call the vet. Ultimately I decided against this. I want to say money wasn’t a factor, but that’s not entirely true. I did have some concern about another costly procedure. More importantly, as I have written in the past, I have a loose rule around the animals, which is to mostly let nature take its course. Plus, I recently binged The Pitt, the new ER show, watching umpteen intubations and chest tube installations, which only reinforced my thoughts about avoiding over-intervention.

Still, it was brutally sad to watch Lisa grow weaker, to understand that she would not recover. Having been through this with many animals, I was also visited with a moment of pragmatism. I knew once she was gone I’d have to move her. So I laid a big tarp on the ground beneath the mesquite tree she had chosen as her transition spot, and gently moved her onto it, knowing that shortly the tarp would serve as a makeshift stretcher.

As the Horrible Waiting Game unfolded, I would visit with her, then go inside, rinse, repeat. Though it can be hard to see, there really is much beauty in death, in the Circle of Life. Toward this end, I got to witness something I have witnessed before, one of Mother Nature’s most glorious gifts. As Lisa rested quietly, waiting for the end, some of the other animals took turns sitting vigil with her—Rosie the Great Pyrenees and Hilary the Duck. I had never seen such compassion from a duck before and the sight was deeply moving.

Still, I could not cry. I could, however, beat myself up, ask myself why I hadn’t sooner discovered her with her head stuck in the fence. I could question my decision not to call the vet. I could go to that place where I told myself I didn’t deserve this life at all, and that I sucked for failing to keep Lisa (and other animals over the years) alive. Fortunately, I could also argue with myself, remind myself that accidents happen, that I’d already nearly lost her a few weeks ago, that maybe it was “just her time.”

When, upon my twentieth trip to check on her, I discovered she was gone, I messaged Dave, my honorary son, who lives in the Willie Nelson Shed out by the goat yard. He joined me under the mesquite tree and we each grabbed an end of the tarp, which I had by then wrapped over Lisa like a shroud. We loaded her into the truck bed, drove out to the mid-pasture gate, and then again carried her, out past the barn to a little patch of land which serves as our graveyard. We laid her down by some brilliantly blooming cacti and I stepped away, too sad to unwrap her for the elements and vultures to do their necessary work, leaving Dave to this sad task, which he performed with great reverence.

Still, I could not cry. Nor again on Wednesday, a day I had, purely by coincidence, taken off from the museum, because my batteries are running seriously low these days. I did have a very early morning wedding, a long drive, during which I busted out one of my biggest tools. I began listening to an audiobook about Buddhism, this one—Cave in the Snow by Vicki McKenzie—a fascinating biography of Tenzo Palmo, an Englishwoman born in 1943, who lived for twelve years in a cave at 13,000 feet, perpetually struggling to survive blizzards as she meditated her way toward enlightenment.

I have, at times, identified as Buddhist, often qualifying this by saying I am a philosophical Buddhist. Of all the spiritual paths, the Buddhists have presented to my personal mind the least nonsensical approach to contemplating that which is beyond us. I am particularly fond of the nontheistic aspect, having suffered mightily in my younger life as a member of the misogynistic patriarchal nightmare of the catholic church, with its insistence that we are perpetually being punished for our so-called sins by some Sky Daddy.

Still, I definitely need something, some map, some guidance, to navigate the nuttiness of being human. I used to read Buddhist philosophy more fervently. Now, I turn to it when I am experiencing particularly challenging samsāra—suffering—not because the lessons will cure me of suffering, but because they will gently remind me that suffering is the foundation of our human experience. We suffer, therefore we are. The lessons will also remind me that working to alleviate suffering (our own and that of others) is the best we can do, and that much of this alleviation (perhaps all of it) depends on acceptance, possibly the greatest challenge we denial-addicted humans face.

Immediately I got sucked into the book, in which, among other things, Tenzo Palmo described many occasions during which she heard a voice inside herself offer instruction which, when she followed it, proved to be the right thing. Perhaps this is why, when I returned to the ranch, I heeded the voice in my head telling me I needed to unburden my sadness, find someone to listen. I chose my friend G, already made aware of Lisa’s demise by a brief text in which I owned being very sad, and left it at that.

Now I sent an email, long and rambling, knowing that G knows me very, very well, that I can be my absolute True Self in his presence. I am forever telling my friends I am here for them, I can listen anytime. I tell my workshop attendees that writing heals. And yet I fail sometimes to follow my own advice, not wanting to bother anyone with my latest drama. I forced myself to shake this off, to share. Upon writing this note, something crystallized for me, a notion I’d visited before, but which now lit up like a neon sign.

I am afraid to cry. More importantly, I put down in words why I am afraid to cry. I am afraid to cry because I have, more than once in my life, had crying jags that went on for days, weeks, and once a full six months. Most often, probably always, these jags fell during Capital D episodes of Depression. So there was the truth: I wasn’t so much afraid to cry as I was afraid I might not stop once I started, and that this would indicate I had succumbed to another bout of Depression.

After struggling mightily with chronic depression for decades, I am in a place now where it has been several years since I fell into the abyss. Maybe this is due to all the hard work—the decades of therapy and meditation, the occasional use of medication. Maybe it’s because I’m an Old Crone now and with age comes some relief. Maybe it’s just dumb luck. All I know is, if I never experience full blown Depression again, that will be entirely too soon.

G had many wise things to say. His deep knowing of me allows him to deliver consolation in a way he understands will get through. What I refer to as my “neediness”—I tell him I hate being needy—he gently reshapes into my desire to connect, which, he also reminds me, is crucial to survival. This offering did get me very near to the edge of weepiness.

And yet still, I could not cry.

Friday morning, I had a funeral to lead in Kyle. I left early so I could swing by Discount Tire on the way. The day before, I had discovered that my undermount spare tire was wobbling when I drove, dangling on the chain that is supposed to hold it in place, posing a great risk it might fly off on the highway. I braced myself as I pulled into the parking lot, figuring this would be yet another expensive repair I could not afford. Ed took a quick look, excused himself, returned with a long thin tool, and in about two minutes made things right again.

“What do I owe you?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said.

I gave him a tip—roughly 40x less than what I’d imagined it would cost but to his eyes surprisingly large and entirely unexpected. He was so grateful. But he wasn’t as grateful as me. Because finally I was crying. This is when I told him what a huge difference he made in my life, which I think puzzled him. As far as he was concerned, he had just tightened a bolt. But in the process, he loosened something inside of me.

I actually didn’t cry that long or that hard. But it was enough. Good practice. Recalibration. Signal to Ye Olde Neuropathways that one can get a little leaky without falling into the well of despair. A reminder that I can change. I have changed.

Which suddenly reminds me of one of my favorite goofy jokes. I borrowed this version from The Zen Site:

A Zen master visiting New York City goes up to a hot dog vendor and says, "Make me one with everything." The hot dog vendor fixes a hot dog and hands it to the Zen master, who pays with a $20 bill.The vendor puts the bill in the cash box and closes it. "Excuse me, but where’s my change?" asks the Zen master. The vendor responds, "Change must come from within."

Indeed it must. And so I carry on, still very sad over Lisa, but shifting slowly over to acceptance.

How about y’all? Have you been crying? Do you fight it? Got any tricks to get the tears flowing? I want to know.

JOY AND BEAUTY DEPARTMENT

THE LAWMOWER REPORT

The sound of one hand mowing. (I stole that line from G.)

NOTES:

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