THE JOY OF CRYING

A mom was on her knees on the sidewalk, leaning into a baby stroller in front of me, her face nestled next to her little boy’s face as he cried. She held him close, being with him as he cried. 

 "I just want to cry," he said quietly.  In the warm sun, on this quiet residential street, she simply held her cheek next to his, repeating, "You just want to cry, of course." They seemed to have no where to go, no hurry. As I walked slowly past them, she acknowledged my presence with her eyes, and remained completely present with her boy.  

Together, they wrapped their arms around each other as he cried quietly, then silently, then not at all. She was his witness, his support, his permission to express himself in his way in that moment. 

For a moment, I longed to have easy access to tears freely, without self judgment, guilt or believing I needed to have a reason. I knew that crying was a natural expression and did not need to be about sadness ....or even about anything at all. “What would it be like,” I wondered, “if all women, men, girls and boys, and me, could cry spontaneously when it is there to do, would there be fewer words spoken?"  I smiled.........a tear..

ISN'T EVERYTHING FICTION?

Some years ago while sitting in a coffee shop in Taos, New Mexico, writing a book I did not know would be published, a man and his wife walked by my table. I recognized him as a well-known famous writer of books and screen plays, yet I was so completely absorbed in my laptop screen, lost in a story, that I did not completely take in his celebrity.

If I had, I might have been intimidated or a bit shy. "Are you writing fiction or non-fiction?” this celebrity person asked. Without thinking, I replied, "Isn't everything fiction?” Surprised by my answer, he turned to his wife and I heard him say, "God, he's right. He’s right." I went back to typing the flow of words emerging from somewhere within me. For a moment, I was impressed by myself for coming up with that instinctive response.

Ten years later, today, I am sitting in a coffee shop in Portland, Oregon, writing what seems to be transitioning into a book. A man with a beard, and appearing to be a street person, or at least fitting my stereotype of a street person, sat down on the stool beside me. The smell of a cigarette smoker filled the space around me. “Hi,” he said, looking in my direction. I noticed my quiet judgment of him, and at first, felt disturbed.

He sensed my thought. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to disturb you," he said. “Go on and do your work.” Hearing him, I paused and stopped typing. I turned to face him directly. “You know, people are more important than machines. I’m sorry. I’m glad you are here and we can talk together.” He smiled, revealing some missing teeth. “Today is my birthday,” he replied. “I’m 50 today, and Starbucks has given me a free coffee drink, pastry and anything I want today. Are you a writer?" he asked. "Yes, sometimes I write."

"Are you writing fiction or non-fiction?" he asked, as though he knew the history of that question. "Isn't everything fiction?" I replied. We stared at each other. His facial expression gradually transformed into a knowing smile, as though he knew the truth of those words. I no longer felt a distance between us. He knew. I knew. “Thank you,” he said, then stood up, excused himself and went outside for a smoke.

YES, YOU CAN DO IT

A five-year old little girl was quietly sitting on a four-foot high metal fence overlooking the
Santa Cruz Pacific ocean, just a few feet from a cliff beneath her dangling legs. Her father stood behind her; his arms gently but securely holding and bracing her for safety.

They were quiet together, lost in the serenity of the sun glistening on the waters below as surfers found waves to ride.

It was time to go. The father quietly picked up his daughter from the fence as she gently resisted leaving her sitting spot. She resisted with her entire body, seemingly wanting to stay longer. He removed her anyway, placing her on the ground several feet back from the fence. Free from his arms, she started to run back to climb on the railing.

'"Oh you just want to prove something eh?" he said, his tone not mean, yet judgmental and sounding more like a reaction to her determination.

A brief moment later, as though he had heard his own tone of voice, he added, "Go do it." This time, his voice carried a tone of confidence in his daughter, and maybe freedom from his own fear. It was a shift to "Yes, you can do it, I trust you. And I can support the trust you have in yourself."

He released his hold on her. She ran free. When she reached the fence, she placed both hands on the top railing, pulled herself up part way...then dropped back down to the ground, turned, and ran back to her dad, into his arms...and they hugged each other. No words. They walked away holding hands.

WHAT IS IT ABOUT CHILDREN?

What is it about children? I mean, who are these little people that come into our lives, sometimes unexpectedly, more often with great anticipation? At birth, we hold and embrace and kiss them a lot. We protect and care for them. We love them unconditionally. We appreciate their innocence, laughter, play and ability to let us take care of them.

What do they bring out in us big people that tends to be so kind, compassionate, playful, soft, trusting and safe? Could it be true that children, from birth, can see quite naturally, who we really are inside, separate from our personality, clothes we wear, beliefs we carry, or work we do, or don't do? Could it be that children instinctively see beyond our personal self doubts, learned beliefs about parenting, and the ways we were all taught we were supposed to be? .

What happens to us and them, as they begin to walk and talk and become part of our planned schedules? What is going on here that the children in our lives that we cherish so, would do anything for, and once felt so overjoyed to be around,, may gradually start to appear more frustrating to us, distant, inconvenient, even less cherished? What is that about?

If we have conflicts, where do they come from? What is different? Why, if it has, does the world of school, chores, expectations, and what other people think, seem to take over the family, and bring up our greatest fears as parents, and often seem so frustrating, to the point where schooling and expectations often become the dominant part of family life? What is going on here? Are we as adults and parents caught in our own fears about the future? If so, are we aware of how these fears may be driving and separating us? Are we still able to hold, embrace and kiss them a lot, care for them, love them unconditionally, and appreciate their innocence, laughter, and ability to let us protect and take care of them?

Are we seeing children as who they are, or what we expect them to be? Don't answer that.
Well, answer it. What if the children everywhere are saying, "I don't need you to be with me. I need you to be with yourself. When you are with yourself, you are with me." When you are with yourself.......you are with me.

MISSY and STOREY : Going Over The Edge

An Introduction: Missy and Storey are both fourteen years of age, yet ageless.....(meaning they are beyond any category, identity or need for labels based on age or gender.) They are students at Village Free School in Portland, Oregon. This story describes what took place recently when they asked to meet with other students and friends to bring attention to, and practice, telling the truth directly to each other, rather than around each other,

The story describes what evolved and ultimately transcended everyday ways we often communicate with people around us, regardless of age or role. They went to the heart of relationships. A Native American friend once reminded me: "Everything in life is about relationship." Storey and Missy demonstrated what this looks like.

The Story: No one spoke. In their discomfort, the students gazed silently at the floor. No one knew what to say or do next. Storey, a 14 year old young woman, broke the silence as she addressed the seven other female and male teenagers sitting in the room.

"I asked that we all meet," she began in a strong clear voice, looking directly into the the eyes of each person, "because people talk about me behind my back. I want you all to talk to me directly to my face. I might feel hurt and react, but I will get through it. Behind my back makes me angry and I can't trust you. I don't feel safe. If there is something you want me to know, tell me personally and directly. I want that."

A few of the young people shuffled a bit. One defended himself. Another offered explanations. A 16-year old blamed Storey, accusing her of being too sensitive. Explanations, blame and growing tension filled the room. More silence. Storey took a deep breath, and in the same clear voice without blame -- sounding like a blend of request and command, repeated, "talk to me directly. I want that." Her eyes glanced around the room, searching for a clue that she was being heard. She apparently saw none. Believing she was not heard, she leaned forward slightly, appearing defeated, frustrated, not knowing what to do next.

Minutes passed in tense silence. One person stood, and walked out of the room. Missy, a tall 5'10" 14-year-old young woman suddenly sat up in her chair. Her abrupt movement captured everyone's attention. Her facial expression transcended her age; as though something in her, or beyond her, was taking charge. All eyes were on Missy, sensing she was about to say or do something no one had done before at this school, or possibly any other. Everyone looked up in anticipation, waiting, expecting.

Methodically, slowly, Missy made eye contact with each person, one at at time, pausing long enough to capture their full attention before moving on to the next. With the connection made, she turned in her chair to face Storey. Missy was calm and committed. No one moved. No one spoke. Her facial expression implied, "You will hear me. This is the truth of things."

Missy's eyes met Storey's, and held.

"Storey," I love you, she began. "I love you." Storey was visibly uncomfortable. Missy paused until her words were received, then repeated, "I love you Storey." Storey's eyes moistened. A few tears formed. Again, silence.

Missy turned to face the next person. "David, I love you. I love you David." David seemed embarrassed, yet remained silent. ”I love you……..I love you," she repeated to the young person sitting next to David, then paused long enough for her words to be received. The young woman shifted a little, but her eyes remained transfixed to Missy. Missy's expression was beyond serious. It demanded to be heard and believed.

With each person, Missy repeated the words, "I love you." Missy's little sister, Katie, for the first time in her young life, began to quietly share the feelings she carried inside her about herself and her world. Everyone listened. Simply listened and heard her words and fears, and feelings. That was all that needed to happen...simply listen and hear each voice without comment, advice, or judgment.

When Missy said I love you to the last person, no one spoke. The room was quiet and free from tension.....Only Silence. Feelings. Stillness.

MR. OHLY: 7th grade

I believe I went to school for so many years of my life just to meet Mr. Ohly. By the time we met in the seventh grade, I had already sat through over 7,000 hours at one desk or another. I "did" those hours because I believed I had to. Later, after I had completed more years of college, I stopped to wonder one day, "what was all that about?"

I believe it was the meeting of Mr. Ohly, a 7th grade teacher. All the other years of sitting, listening, and reporting back a variety of facts, were the background context for his gift to me. A gift I felt at the time, yet only fully appreciated many years later.

For only a few seconds, Mr. Ohly put his warm large hand on my shoulder as I sat at my desk doing an assignment. It was the kind of touch that is filled with recognition, kindness, encouragement, and the "you are OK just the way you are, love." I didn't know that in my mind then. I didn't have words.

As he moved to the next person in front of me, his hand shifting from my shoulder to the shoulder of the girl in front of me, my eyes watered, and my head went down automatically to hide the tears. Had I felt safe to feel completely, I would have cried. I knew it then and I
knew I would have been embarrassed and even been made fun of. I was not ready for that.

So, instead, I had quiet tears. A silent voice inside me whispered, "he likes me. He just likes me."

NOT TOO SENSITIVE

My friend, Sara, a mother of two children, recently told me that as a little girl, she was told she was "too sensitive... and made too much of things." As we walked, she shared how she came to
believe it...and often made herself wrong for "sensing and feeling" things that others did not, or at best, did not notice.

She wondered what she could do to "not" be so sensitive, to not feel things so deeply, and to just be "like everyone else."

As a little girl, she noticed when people were being nice instead of honest. How adult voices changed when talking to children. How her stomach ached a bit when she thought she was not being told the whole truth. She blamed herself for even noticing these things. "It seems that so many people around me are pretending, hiding; afraid to reveal who they are inside, and what they are seeing or feeling. I am too."

Sara's story matched mine, and many people I have known, "Instead of the label Too sensitive," I suggested, without knowing what I was about to say, "You have a gift of exquisite sensitivity;
the ability and willingness to feel deeply. You get to notice the background, unspoken, unexpressed, truth of things. Medicine women, Shamans, and often people mentally diagnosed, have this skill and gift, and they too are often marginalized or dismissed."

Sara smiled, open for the first time, to the possibility that she may not be wrong or a bad person. "But...but...but what do I do with this so-called gift if it causes others to be critical of me, or roll their eyes?" We were both silent. The kind of silence that comes naturally just before a revelation.

"I know," Sara said, "If my exquisite sensitivity is a gift, and I believe it is, then I can simply practice being respectful of others, especially children, I can take seriously the things my children say that often sound silly or obvious. I might ask them another question. I can be more sensitive to their perception of how they see the world. I can give to them what I would have wanted, and want right now. I can even honor myself for thoughts that seemingly make no sense." She paused. "I sound like some wise woman, don't I? Hmmmm....I am."