The Thirst for Tears

There comes a time in the healing journey when we meet ourselves in a moment of surprise, a weeping, a trembling, a release so foreign it feels almost dangerous. This blog entry from 'The Us in Me' was written in a moment: a parking lot, a memory, a car filled with unexpected tears.

Tears are a holy language. They are not weaknesses, but wisdom. The child within us often carries what the adult has long avoided: grief, confusion, rage, sorrow, longing. Letting her speak is brave. Letting her weep is sacred.

What follows is not a tidy testimony. It is a confession. A breath. A gasp. A gulp of needed water from the deep well of unspoken emotion. It is for anyone who has suddenly found themselves crying over something long buried, only to wonder, what else is in there?

Dear Reader

I am a coward. I yearn for nothing more than to allow the child to rant, to cry, to scream. To let you know God was there, is here. But it exhausts me.

,

As I began writing on the page a week ago, I cried in my car. For the first time, alone, I cried. What in the hell is this? I don’t remember weeping like that, not as a child or an adult. Although familiar and strangely comforting, the liquid bursting forth from the submerged depths scared me. What else is in there?

That taste of needed tears was like that first sip of water in the morning. Your mouth craves it, parched from the night. As it touches your lips and slips along your tongue, down your throat, you beg for more. You lift the cup, hoping it will never end. You want it to empty itself into you. And every part of you begins to awaken.

But then we forget. We abandon simple refreshment, chase distractions, and seek something else to satisfy what only truth can.

Still, the thirst returns. And I fear how its relentless desire to be known might empty me.

Every time I permit vulnerability, I dread and crave its uncontrollable passion.

Have I been this far from her? Have I silenced her for so long that I can no longer recognize her as me? I want to. I’m not sure if I can. My body stiffens.

– Me

Dear Child

I remain on this old wooden pew.

Understand -What I ask her to do.

Voices of old, the only screams she hears.

Listen -A sound isn't near.

Shadows lurk inside some room.

Reek -Fear, memory, and doom.

Words now printed in ink gone cold.

Realize -To this pew, your heart must let go.

A soul cannot live in a land of honey.

Ask -The path you must first study.

This is her journey; one I'm willing to travel.

Take -The lived past unraveling.

She chokes on the burning taste of fear.

Thirst -Drink what remains unclear.

Is it possible to pass through hell unscathed?

No - Pasts are what keep you enslaved.

Let us begin this walk of trust.

Release - Air stirs; she gasps, then hush.

-God

Pause for Reflection

• What tears have you held back, believing they were unsafe to express?

• Is there a part of your story beginning to stir, asking for voice?

• Can you welcome the vulnerability that comes with weeping, honesty, and thirst?

Place your hand on your chest and feel the rise and fall of your breath. You are here. You are present. Let that be enough for now.

The Gift of Tears

In Ignatian Spirituality, the gift of tears is not something to avoid; it is a grace. The body and soul speak in unison, releasing what words cannot hold. In the Psalms, tears fall like rivers.

Lament is named holy. Longing is not cast away but welcomed.

This work, The Us in Me, is a series of holy tears. Each drop falls with purpose, revealing not only the pain but also the possibility of healing.

To the reader who finds themselves weeping as they read or for something they do not yet understand: you are not falling apart. You are falling open.

Even this. Even you. Even me.

-Kimi

-Originally posted in a collection of poems and letters entitled The Us in Me as part of a healing project where one encounters the wounded child within from my first website, Becoming Sound (2018). Please click on the tag 'The Us in Me' to explore further.