Yesterday, I woke up and did my usual morning routine. Part of this includes a contemplative time when I attempt to align my thoughts and find my calm for the upcoming day. It’s a nice moment and it was this morning as well, except I found myself crying.
I used to cry daily, many times each day: in the bathroom, at the supermarket, at the doctor’s office, in the parking lot, in the garage, in the car – pretty much everywhere.
But that doesn’t happen anymore. I remember and I mourn, but the tears no longer flow unexpectedly and unabashedly.
I’ve chalked that up to the waves and succession of grief. Or perhaps I’m just growing and moving toward living life to its fullest. (Whatever that may be.)
Until this morning. When I found myself inexplicably crying, or maybe it wasn’t so inexplicable at all. I’m still hurting; I probably always will be on some level.
It’s just that it’s not my daily routine anymore. And in some ways, that hurts more than the tears ever could. While I’m still saying goodbye to the big things, I’m no longer parting ways with the mundane. That’s been done. Sigh.
I think at first you cry so often because you are saying goodbye to so many things.
Every. Thing. (If we are being honest.) Meals together. Sleeping together. Texting. Talking. Laughing. Bickering. Sharing silly moments. Sharing the most important moments. Planning for the future. Counting on the future. And then, it is gone.
Every moment is a goodbye. And saying goodbye to the mundane hurts more than I could ever express. Because after the Loss, after you Understand, you realize life will never be mundane again because you couldn’t allow it to be. You’ve lost the ability to live mundane.
You know it all matters - every second of it. Every smile. Every frown. Every joke. Every story. Every hello. Every goodbye.
Every day. Every night. Every “goodnight.” You’ll never take any of that for granted, and the tears did that for you. In that way, they were a gift - a salty, mascara-smearing gift. A cleansing, because they gave you clarity. Clarity of thought. Clarity of belief. Clarity of what you see in the mirror and what you see in the world that sits beyond the mirror.
It’s like life - before - was a blur. You thought the sky was blue, the stop sign was red, the sun was yellow and the light at the intersection was green, but now you know for sure.
None of it is for sure. None of it is set in stone. It can all change in an instant. Or in a lifetime. Or maybe a little of both.
And at first you cry about that, and then later, you still cry, but not as much and you realize that as much as it hurt (and still hurts and always will hurt), it also happened to push you forward in stupid ways you never would have wanted, but here they are and you might as well embrace them because they are what you have.
Sometimes all you have. Well, besides the tears. But you can’t even count on them anymore. And on most days, that’s a positive thing. It’s a good thing. Even a really good thing. Most days. But today, I cried. And that’s okay, too.
Jill Pertler is an award-winning syndicated columnist, published playwright and author. Don’t miss a slice; follow the Slices of Life page on Facebook.
