My husband, Jonathan, writes poetry. He doesn’t talk about it to others much and is very shy about his work so it’s always pretty special when he asks me if I’d like to hear something he’s written. The other day as I was doing some cleaning around the house, he stopped and asked me if I would like to hear a poem he wrote, a poem about me. I almost said no because I was right in the middle of something and wasn’t sure if I had the capacity to switch gears, but I took him up on his offer. I said yes.
We went into his office. As we both sat down, he picked up the notebook that holds his poetry and began to thumb through the pages to find the one he wanted me to hear. When he found it and he began to read, I took time to ground myself into the present. I uncrossed my legs from underneath me and planted my feet on the ground. I rested my hands on my knees. I closed my eyes. I deepened my breath. I used my whole body to listen to him so that I could fully receive his words, his love.
A previous version of me, as recent as a year ago maybe, wouldn’t have done any of this. I wouldn’t have sat down to listen to him and if I did, I wouldn’t have been totally present to his sharing. Perhaps I wouldn’t have even said yes to his offer to read me the poem. A previous version of me would’ve found a way to avoid this moment, this intimacy, if not physically than emotionally.
But something has been shifting in me the deeper I drop into my own body and reckon with the competing legacies of fear that have been carved within me. And that was especially made evident by my response to his poem about me: I cried.
. . .
A few years ago, I was having dinner with two friends in New York. We were in a loud and busy restaurant packed with vibrant conversations and sizzling hot plates being carried out hurriedly by waitstaff. We were scrunched at a small table in between two big parties who were clearly celebrating something; I remember them laughing really loudly. I also remember that I ordered a salad because I was trying to be “good” during this particular trip. As we waited for our orders to arrive, the three of us got on the topic of astrology placements, which led us into a conversation about emotionality.
My friend, J, mentioned that they are a “crier”, someone who feels deeply and gets moved to tears really easily. I’ve witnessed J choke up as they spoke about things that touched them from the very basic of heartwarmth to the absolute heartwrenching. The readily availability of their emotions has really fascinated me because while I am someone who tends to feel things deeply (Cancer moon), I don’t cry easily. I’ve always found that odd.
In our conversation, I told J that I envied their ability to access one of nature’s best ways to transmute feeling into motion. "I wish I could cry easier,” I said, "I don’t know why I can’t. I think maybe it has something to do with my antidepressant, like, maybe it’s dulled my ability to access my emotions.” I don’t remember what J said in response but the conversation changed course and went in a different direction after that. Looking back, I wonder if it was weird for J to have someone openly coveting their tears.
I’ve been coming back to that moment a lot during the last year because of what I now know about my own tears. Me being able not to cry easily had nothing to do with my antidepressant. It had to do with my conditioned tendency of avoiding intimacy, a symptom of a larger issue that I’ve only just begun to unearth: how much I have armored my heart.