Tag Archives: Imagination

What Always Brings Tears To Your Eyes?

“Those who do not weep, do not see.” –Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

“Tears are words that need to be written.” –Paulo Coelho

Hello friend,

Last weekend I attended my first virtual funeral.  I don’t ever go to real funerals.  It is just not my jam, for many reasons.  However, this one had me especially intrigued, and since it was over Zoom, I figured that I could escape whenever I wanted.  My commitment was minimal.  I was drawn to this particular memorial not because I was so close with the deceased—indeed, we didn’t know each other well at all and hadn’t seen each other in years—but because of my sense of who he was (perhaps a kindred spirit) and the wide variety of lives I imagined that he had touched in his too-brief stay on this Earth.   I knew that he was special, and I wanted to see how that presented itself in this final farewell.  And honestly, I wanted a little more of him.  I am sure we all did.

Throughout the service, which was designed to pack in as many different voices and testimonials as possible from the lives he touched along the way, I discovered a pattern in my emotional state: when the speaker was dry-eyed, I was dry-eyed; when the speaker cried, I cried.  It never failed.  Oh sure, I cried at a few other times, too, like when they showed a picture of him and my daughter when she was a baby or a picture of him and my wife smiling together.  Those got me.  But otherwise, it was a pretty safe bet that when I witnessed weeping, I wept.

I have come to know that pattern about myself over the years.  When raw emotion is in front of me—especially crying but beyond that as well, even in Joy—I am an instant puddle.  After studying myself through my journals for this long, I have come to chalk this characteristic up to the same Empathy that has shaped so much of my worldview, including my politics and spirituality.  When I witness someone deep in feeling, it just seems to channel directly into my heart.  I am powerfully moved in an instant.  It can be a problem, but I mostly appreciate it.  I like to be reminded occasionally that I have not hardened myself too much against this world that is so full of slings and arrows.  I am still raw and affected.  That is alright with me, especially the part of me that wants to remain an artist and a warrior for justice until the day I die.  As long as I keep having authentic interactions with people and absorbing their genuine emotions, I am going to be a weeper.

But when else?  Other than diving headlong into others’ drama, what are the other moments that get my tears going?

If you have been with Journal of You for a while—whether through these regular letters or just the book—you know that I spend a fair amount of time obsessing about Death and Legacy, the importance of my impact and what I will leave behind.  I am so grateful that I have not yet had to face many deaths of those closest to me; I have always been lucky in that department.  But it doesn’t stop my active imagination from running wild with images of that loss.  I don’t mean scenes of graphic violence or horrific accidents; my mind does not go there.  It does, however, go often to thoughts of learning of their loss or having the difficult conversations about life without them.  I picture things like hearing about my child’s (or sister’s or mother’s) death or explaining my wife’s death to my children.  Vivid scenes that sweep me away and leave me tear-stained.

Those daydreams, however, are nothing compared to the ones in which I am the one dying  (usually of cancer) and have to communicate that with my wife and, even more often, my kids.  Somehow, I seem to fall into this awful habit when I am driving alone.  I think about making videos for them to watch when I am gone, on occasions like birthdays, graduations, or weddings, messages from their father who would be so proud of them and wish he were there.  I make big speeches, often out loud in my car, by the end of which I am full-on sobbing, hardly able to see the road through my gushing eyes.  By the time I realize what I am doing, I am practically panting in despair.  It is embarrassing.  It is that idea of leaving my family, though, that I simply cannot abide.  That is a guaranteed tear-jerker.

Speaking of leaving my family, I am pretty quick to get weepy in saying goodbye to my parents and siblings after our too-infrequent visits.  I try to fight it by rushing through the process, but by the time I hit the gas pedal to drive away, I am mush.  Even though we all get frustrated with my Dad for doing it, sometimes I envy him for his habit of just sneaking off before the goodbye part of the visits.  If we have gone to his house to stay for a holiday, he always manages to be “at work” when it comes time for us to leave town.  If we meet up with him at the cabin and we are all planning to leave the same day, he gets up early and gets on the road before anyone realizes it is time to go.  It’s pretty weasel-y, but at least he doesn’t have to face the emotion of goodbye.  He leaves that for the rest of us, most of whom are pretty teary about it.  I don’t really get that way with goodbyes with other people outside the family, but that is why family is family.  It’s just deeper.  I know I will be awful about it when my kids are grown.

I have a terrible time reading out loud, too, without crying.  This happens with sad stories, of course.  I still read to my daughter every night before bed, and it is highlight of my day, but I occasionally struggle to keep it together.  I can laugh now at my attempts a few years ago to get through Where The Red Fern Grows with her, but it was a choking, teary mess at the time.  Any sentimental message read aloud can get me, though, like a card or a Facebook post that I am sharing with my wife.  It happens with my own writing, too, especially things about my feelings for loved ones.  I sometimes read my work aloud to myself before publishing it, just to see if it flows, and I have definitely found myself in a puddle of tears on more than one occasion.

Likewise, I can envision wanting to say something at my parents’ funerals but just not being able to.  I am one of those criers who simply cannot speak through the process.  The emotion stabs me like a knife, and it’s like my air is just gone.  I tried to say a few words about my grandfather during the visitation the night before his funeral, and it was a sobby, chokey, mostly silent mess.

Strangely, I have occasionally fancied the idea of being a television news reporter or anchor, probably a poor fit for a guy who cries when sharing almost any impactful story.  It was more acceptable when I was studying to be an actor, which, now that I think of it, is probably how I fell into the habit of imagining all of those dramatic scenes I mentioned above that so regularly slay me in the car.  I guess I am drawn to sharing the Truth of any situation—whether my own or of those whose stories need hearing—even if that sharing brings me to tears.

As I come to recognize that realization, I am reminded of my tendency to tear up—not sob, but just get “watery eyes”—in just about any direct, intimate conversation (typically one-on-one).  I can recall so many conversations, especially ones concerning my loved ones or my own work—things like parent-teacher conferences and job interviews—when the eye-to-eye and the intimacy itself seems to draw the water involuntarily up to my eyes, even when seemingly inappropriate.  As I said, it is not weeping in the usual sense—I am not breaking down emotionally in these otherwise-normal moments, just tearing up a bit (which can cause the normal to become slightly awkward, though people typically pretend not to notice).  I chalk it up to sensitivity.  I am a bit of a raw nerve, prone to really feel everything.  It is just one of my idiosyncrasies.  I roll with it.

I am not sure what it says about me, the things that bring me to tears and the regularity of them in my life.  I tend to not judge it, not seeing it as either a particular strength or weakness.  But is it?  I kind of appreciate the cleansing nature of crying, but I don’t seek out opportunities for it (like I said, the dramatic driving scenes are not planned or even fully conscious, but rather just the result of getting swept up by my overactive imagination).  I don’t have a strong desire to cry any more than I do now, though I would prefer not to have so much of the “watery eyes” in mundane, everyday conversations.  I tend to see the source of my tears as an understanding of Love and the value of connection.

I also understand that I come at this topic as someone who is unusually blessed in my life circumstances and psychological make-up.  I have been lucky all my life, with a healthy upbringing, a pleasant nuclear and extended family, always enough food on the table, with things I enjoy doing and people I enjoy spending time with (and, as I mentioned, I haven’t dealt with much death yet).  My worldview is naturally optimistic, and I don’t struggle with anxiety or depression.  I am resilient and self-confident, and I understand, thanks to my daily journaling, the minute details of what makes me tick.  My mental health is in good shape.  For all of these things, I am extremely lucky.  I understand that if any one of them went the other way, my outlook on this topic of crying would likely be entirely different.  I am grateful that most of my tears to this point have been healthy ones and from situations I could choose.  I don’t ever cry because the world all seems too much for me, because I am stressed out or just can’t take one more thing working against me.  I don’t cry because I hate my life or feel trapped or overburdened.  I imagine those kinds of tears are pretty common in the world, and I know that Life still has many challenges remaining for me.  A run of good luck doesn’t last forever.

This is part of why this topic is fascinating to me, and why I want to know your answer.  It illustrates yet another way in which our stories are all different and thus why we need Empathy and Grace.  Our tears, whether of Joy or Sadness or anything in between, reveal something special about us.  No, reveal is the wrong word.  Maybe indicate.  The tears don’t tell the story.  They merely indicate that there is something special worth digging into.  Something deeper.  Something worth the effort to understand and appreciate, because it is soul-level stuff, the kind that makes us who we are.  For me, that means there is magic in those tears.   The magic of our Truth.  And I always, always, want to be a part of the Truth.

How about you?  What always makes you cry?  Open up your journal and your heart to explore the source and significance of those tears.  What predictably makes you cry?  Are your things specific events (e.g. a funeral, a break-up, a goodbye) or mental health-triggered issues (e.g. anxiety, depression, or the accumulation of Life just becoming too much sometimes)?  What are the events that trigger you?  Are they obviously heavy hitters, like death, or are they more subtle things?  Who are the people usually associated with your tears?  Has it been the same people all your life?  How often are the these “people tears” due to how much you love them, and how often are they due to these people wronging you?  Is that a healthy ratio?  How do you do with goodbyes?  What about books and movies (I’m a big movie crier)?  Do you have any memories that always bring tears with them?  Are those good memories or bad ones?  How often do you cry tears of Joy?  What other emotions make you cry?  How often do ordinary, everyday life situations bring tears to your eyes?  What kinds of conversations do it?  Do you cry at the sight of others crying or suffering?  How empathetic are you?  Do you think your Empathy rating dictates how much you cry in response to others’ pain?  Do you ever wonder about the source of your tears, their true trigger?  What do your tears actually say about what is going on deep down inside you?  Are they revealing of something you haven’t yet addressed and need to dig into?  Do you need help with that?  Do you believe your crying to be mostly a healthy sign, or a sign of problems?  Do you usually feel better afterward?  Do you wish you cried more often or less often?  Which topics give you your best cries?  Leave me a reply and let me know: What always brings tears to your eyes?

Be free,

William

P.S. If today’s topic resonated with you, please share it.  We could all use a release from time to time.

P.P.S. If this way of introspection appeals to you, consider buying my book, Journal of YOU: Uncovering The Beauty That Is Your Truth, at your favorite online retailers.

EXPRESS YOURSELF!!! Do You Let Your Inner Artist Out?

“To be creative means to be in love with life. You can be creative only if you love life enough that you want to enhance its beauty, you want to bring a little more music to it, a little more poetry to it, a little more dance to it.” –Osho

“You can’t use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have.” –Maya Angelou

Hello friend,

I am an artist. I am an artist!

Gosh, that is really hard to say!!! It makes me feel as though I am boasting! And perhaps, if I am deep-down honest, it makes me feel insecure as to whether I am telling the truth, whether I am good enough to measure up to the term. Artist. Artiste! But I am working hard to say it with conviction. “I am an artist.” I am.

I have a much easier time saying–to myself and to you–that I am a writer. I have the ink stains to prove that claim. Clearly, I write to you on a regular basis. I wrote a book. I qualify as a writer. Before I started Journal of You, I was already writing in my journal every day for 17 years. During those years, however, I didn’t necessarily consider myself a “writer” because I wasn’t sharing my words with the world. I wrote every day because it made me feel good to write. It connected me to myself. And to my higher Self. Writing liberated me at the same time that it taught me who I was. It brought me out while bringing me in. It was both a form of expression and discovery.

Stop there. Back that up a few sentences.

Even as I was just typing that explanation of why my early writing was not “writing” or “art,” the words coming out of my fingers were telling me that that was exactly the kind of artistic outlet–call it Art or Creativity or Imagination or Soul Connection or Self-Expression or Divine Inspiration or whatever you want–that I needed then and that I think we all need throughout our lives, whether or not we ever intend to share our “art” with the world and call ourselves artists.

Sometimes I think it is the terms themselves that hold us back from exploring these outlets that allow us to feel alive and uplifted and whole. Call something an “Art class” or a “creativity exercise” or a chance for “self-expression” or “imagination,” and most of us shut down entirely. “I don’t have a creative bone in my body!” we say. Or, “I’ve never been artistic.”

So, we don’t take up our buddy on that offer to teach us the guitar. We don’t join our friends who are going to take a one-night painting class together. We don’t go out dancing. We don’t sing karaoke (or even in the shower). We don’t draw pictures, even though we used to love that when we were young. We even ignore those new “adult” coloring books. We don’t pick up the pen to write that poem or short story that seems to be rattling around in our brains looking for an outlet. Heck, we don’t even write that first journal entry, so certain are we that we “have nothing to say” (I hear that one all the time, believe me!).

Why do we squash that? I think a lot of it is FEAR and SHAME. We think that if we try something “artistic,” that we will inevitably be found out and then judged on our performance. Judged harshly. We think people are going to be whispering, “How dare she think she is good enough to perform in public? She’s not a REAL…..(insert whatever you like: dancer, singer, actress, painter, musician, writer).”

Beyond just the criticism of our (lack of) talent, I think there is also that self-consciousness and insecurity around being thought of as childish for doing something as whimsical, imaginative, and brave as art is, even if just done in private.

Somehow, as we leave childhood and enter that ultra-self-conscious stage called adolescence, we tend to cut out anything that is not “cool” or “grown-up,” and we certainly stop doing anything we are “bad” at. The potential judgment of our peers stifles so much that made life fun and engaging and meaningful and inspiring. We mute ourselves. Our clothing choices become less personalized. We stop singing out loud. We don’t draw or paint or color. We don’t make music. Performances stop. Even personal writing ends. That fear of sticking out or, worse yet, being “bad” at something, snuffs out so much of our beautiful light. It is tragic.

The real tragedy, though, is that by the time we are ready to slip the chains of adolescence and emerge as independent, mature adults, this muted existence that we have exiled our true, glorious Self to has become habit. It is your new normal. And not just yours, but everyone else around you, too. Whimsy, inspiration, and connection to our artistic souls seem lost on the adult crowd. It is why I see, at the local sledding hill, the kids howling gleefully as they fly down the slope, gulping fresh air and exhilaration and Life, while their parents stand at the top of the hill and make small-talk. Or why those same parents–and I am guilty of this one, too–spend their money and time on getting their kids to music lessons to learn the piano or violin or whatever (because it is vitally important to raise well-rounded kids), but wouldn’t dream of signing themselves up for lessons.

By adulthood, we have so internalized that fear of being criticized and that need to fit in and be “adults” instead of being “childish,” that it is simply–and unconsciously–expected that we don’t have creative outlets in our lives. So, rather than write or sing or dance just because it makes our soul feel good or lightens our load, we skip it altogether and continue carrying that baggage. We don’t even realize how much of what makes us vibrant and interesting and alive and free is simply hiding under there, lying dormant. Unimaginative and muted are the adult normal.

But dormant means it’s still alive in there, right? Hibernating. Waiting for the right conditions to emerge and flourish. Waiting for its moment to shine.

Well, why can’t NOW be that moment for you? Seriously.

I am asking myself that. Why not now? At this very moment, I am doing some of what makes me feel creative, connected, and inspired. Writing this letter to you definitely has my adrenaline going and is tapping into something my “normal” self doesn’t access. I so appreciate that sensation.

But what else can I do? Music. Last year, I started teaching myself to play the guitar. Fifteen minutes here and there and I was getting just a tiny bit of a feel for it. I loved it, though, as I always knew I would, all those years I spent dreaming about playing by a campfire. But I got busy on a writing project and let it slip. I miss it and realize now that I must get back to it without delay. My other two long-term musical goals are to learn the piano and the harmonica, probably in that order. I have them in my house, too, so it is just up to me to make the time. The mere idea of it excites me, though, even as I am certainly the first one to claim, “I don’t have a musical bone in my body.” I don’t care. I love it! And it gives me all of those amazing and surely Divine tingles that I have been talking about. Even just singing–as I do often with my horrible but passionate voice–makes my soul fly. And someday, when I am done paying for all of my kids’ lessons, I am going to pay someone to help me to learn all of these beautiful things. And I won’t feel guilty about it!

I can totally see myself as being the king of Adult Education classes when my kids leave the house. I would truly enjoy learning to paint, draw, take photographs, write poetry and fiction, and whatever else they are willing to teach me. I could see myself trying out for a community theatre performance someday, too. And I am certain that I will keep writing: journals, blog posts, books, whatever. I want to make art until my last breath.

For now, I just want to make sure I am scratching that creative itch as often as possible. The writing is a huge part of it, but I realize I need more. I am here and now committing to a return to the guitar practice. I think I will borrow some of my kids’ art supplies, too, and just see what comes out of me. Even adding a few minutes of meditation every day–which is not specifically artistic or creative–can help me touch that realm of connection and inspiration where art resides. I am happy there. I am committed to putting myself in a position to touch that magnificent realm more often.

How about you? Do you have creative and artistic outlets in your life? Open up your journal and consider the moments when your soul finds its way to that place that ordinary existence doesn’t make room for. Where in your life are you allowed to let your imagination and creativity free? Do you have creative hobbies? What are they? Is there some aspect of creativity in your job? What else? Do you sing in the car? Do you ever pick up a musical instrument? Do you draw or paint? How about those “adult” coloring books? Do you write poems or short stories? Are you just reading my letters, or will you write a journal entry, too? Do you have any apps on your phone or tablet that you use to create, such as Garage Band? Do you get creative with your camera? Do you have the audacity to call yourself an artist? Could anything get you to that point? If there is nothing like these outlets in your life, what do you do that lights up your soul? How long has it been since you truly felt the light of imagination and expression inside you? What do you sense that you are missing out on by going without, if anything? Are there substitutes for that deep connection and release that art provides; perhaps things like yoga, meditation, religious ceremonies, or walking in Nature? What works for you? Why do we stop doing whimsical, creative things? Is it out of fear that we are acting “childish” by trying something like an art? Is it out of fear of being judged harshly for our lack of talent or skill? Do we think art would seem too decadent or self-indulgent, even a waste of time? Are creative people more interesting to you? Do you think they are actually more courageous than the rest of us, or are they just genetically predisposed to trying difficult things and putting themselves out there? Does the answer to that question matter to you? Do you think trying to stretch your artistic or imaginative skills could help you to grow in self-confidence or courage? Do you think it could help you become more empathetic? More open-minded? More playful and free? How else could creative pursuits improve your life? Could they improve the lives of the people around you, too? In what ways? What is one creative endeavor that you would like to add to your life? How soon can you do that? Will you? Leave me a reply and let me know: How do you feed the artist inside you?

Liberate yourself,

William

P.S. If this letter resonated with you, I invite you to share it with your people. We could all use a little soul stirring.

P.P.S. If this type of questioning appeals to your sensibilities, I hope you will check out my book, Journal of YOU: Uncovering The Beauty That Is Your Truth, at your favorite online retailers.