About rain and tears and grief
My desk sits in front of two windows that look out on stark trees. For now, there are no leaves in sight. And the rain continues to fall and fall and fall. I suppose I could look at the bright side: the ever-green grass, the vast foliage, the lack of dry skin for the plethora of moisture. All of these things would be true. But those silver linings are quickly forgotten in the endless gray and endless wet.
I cannot tell you how many seasons, exactly like this one, I have said, “I have to get out of here!” And yet one day follows after the next, Spring arrives, then Summer, and I remember, once again, at least one of the reasons why I stay: days that are so clear, so gorgeous, so glorious that I can barely take them in.
Weather, yes; so too, in life.
Seasons that are dark and bleak. Tears that fall and fall and fall like rain. Endless gray and endless wet. The disbelief that warmth will ever return.
It will. I promise.
Your willingness to allow dark and bleak and tear-stained seasons is directly proportionate to the clear and gorgeous and glorious you that will yet shine forth. I promise.
And though it’s not the advice you usually hear, take mine: Weep, wail, and scream. Let it all out. A cloudburst. A downpour. Get drenched. Your grief is what makes you more tender, more vulnerable, more real. Your heartbreak is what enables you to tell
your truth in ways heretofore unheard. Your tears are what water the soil of the life you are yet to birth, yet to bring forth, yet to offer this world.
Take your finger out of the dyke and flood the world with the oceans you’ve been keeping at bay.
Why? Because as surely as the sun will return to my neck of the woods – you will survive, you will heal, you will rise. I promise.
Those who have the courage and capacity to grieve are those who have the courage and capacity to yet stand, to still hope, to live and live and live.
I promise.