Tears Talk, Part II
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Honoring Pain
My son, Ryker, is well-versed in tears. At four years old, he cries with his whole body. One day, we were shopping at a party goods store when a sales lady gave him a free helium balloon. Grinning from ear to ear, he gripped its tail-string with both hands. Then, stepping out the automatic doors, gusty winter winds snatched the sphere-of-blue into a violent tug-of-war. "Hold on, hold on, Ryker!" I coached as we skirted across the street into the parking lot. He held on, white knuckled.
Buckled into our Jeep, Ryker celebrated his triumph at having escorted his balloon to safety. "The wind didn’t get it mommy!" And he cradled the helium-happy gift in his lap, the whole way home. Once in the front door, sheltered from the gusty day, Ryker let go of his treasure, relieved. It floated to the ceiling, and burst–with an ear shattering ‘pop.’
Oh the tears he cried! Ryker’s shoulders fell forward and his arms dangled lifelessly as he threw his head back and wailed. Every muscle in his back seemed to throb and convulse, as a shower of wet poured from his lip-heavy face. Little legs bowed and bent as he walked a small circle like a wounded puppy. Then, completely abandoned to his grief, Ryker collapsed to the ground, and folded in on himself.
It was a raw and uncensored funeral. My son had lost something that, to him, was profoundly important. His pain spoke to me: It unveiled my inhibitions; It asked about things in my life I’d given up, compromised, sacrificed, lost; It caused distant memories to creak and moan like an abandoned ship being raised from the depths. Uncomfortable with the stirring, I was tempted to "shush" the dramatic sobbing, "It’s only a balloon. It’s not the end of the world!" But something whispered about treasures to be found in such water-logged wrecks.
Children don’t fear pain. They seldom squelch it, hide it, apologize for it, or protect others from its reality. When loss shows up on their doorstep, insisting on a visit, they usher it in and allow it to play. They even dress it up and give it a role, center stage, until the curtain is drawn – and the next scene begins. Somehow they know–when denied its proper place, pain hovers and haunts, waiting in the wings for its overdue debut.
This is Part II in a series about listening to depression. To read the first post, check out my post Tears Talk Part I.
My son, Ryker, is well-versed in tears. At four years old, he cries with his whole body. One day, we were shopping at a party goods store when a sales lady gave him a free helium balloon. Grinning from ear to ear, he gripped its tail-string with both hands. Then, stepping out the automatic doors, gusty winter winds snatched the sphere-of-blue into a violent tug-of-war. "Hold on, hold on, Ryker!" I coached as we skirted across the street into the parking lot. He held on, white knuckled.
Buckled into our Jeep, Ryker celebrated his triumph at having escorted his balloon to safety. "The wind didn’t get it mommy!" And he cradled the helium-happy gift in his lap, the whole way home. Once in the front door, sheltered from the gusty day, Ryker let go of his treasure, relieved. It floated to the ceiling, and burst–with an ear shattering ‘pop.’
Oh the tears he cried! Ryker’s shoulders fell forward and his arms dangled lifelessly as he threw his head back and wailed. Every muscle in his back seemed to throb and convulse, as a shower of wet poured from his lip-heavy face. Little legs bowed and bent as he walked a small circle like a wounded puppy. Then, completely abandoned to his grief, Ryker collapsed to the ground, and folded in on himself.
It was a raw and uncensored funeral. My son had lost something that, to him, was profoundly important. His pain spoke to me: It unveiled my inhibitions; It asked about things in my life I’d given up, compromised, sacrificed, lost; It caused distant memories to creak and moan like an abandoned ship being raised from the depths. Uncomfortable with the stirring, I was tempted to "shush" the dramatic sobbing, "It’s only a balloon. It’s not the end of the world!" But something whispered about treasures to be found in such water-logged wrecks.
Children don’t fear pain. They seldom squelch it, hide it, apologize for it, or protect others from its reality. When loss shows up on their doorstep, insisting on a visit, they usher it in and allow it to play. They even dress it up and give it a role, center stage, until the curtain is drawn – and the next scene begins. Somehow they know–when denied its proper place, pain hovers and haunts, waiting in the wings for its overdue debut.
This is Part II in a series about listening to depression. To read the first post, check out my post Tears Talk Part I.
