The problem with crying.

It’s not yet 9:00 a.m. on January 2, 2020 and I’ve already cried twice today -- the second most hopeful day of the new decade. 

First, I cried when I read the heart-wrenching Op-Ed in the NYT by Lee Siegel, “Why is America so Depressed?” where he discusses his "octave thinking"

Picking out “Over the Rainbow” on the piano my wife and I have rented for our 9-year-old daughter, I realized that the first two notes — “Some-where” — are identical, separated by an octave. The seven notes between them correspond to the seven colors of a rainbow. Thus the song musically embodies the leap from unfulfilling Kansas to the enchanted world of Oz. The process of struggling to conceive of a positive idea of the future that would enable me to leap out of my depression I have begun to call, to myself, “octave thinking.”

There are more reasons this made me cry -- but I was so moved both by the creativity of this coping method and by the hopelessness feeling that Siegel so clearly describes. Not just his own, but of the whole of America. I copied it to Inez and wrote, "the logical result of 'debunking' the spiritual."

And the second time I cried this morning was when I read pages 22-48 of the book, “Tales from the Inner City” by Shaun Tan, a Christmas gift from Nik. (I read the rest of the book in one sitting, later, after breakfast on the train and when I turned over the last page I quietly sobbed -- it was maybe the best and most beautiful book about our current dilemma as a species I have ever read.)

Just now I typed, "I'm not in the habit of crying much," but then I erased it because it's not true. The fact is I'm a sucker when it comes to moving stories -- they can be deep like the ones from this morning, but I can also come tumbling down over movies, television shows, television commercials, parades, even natural disasters (I keened and sobbed for at least five full minutes the first time I saw footage of Mt. St. Helen's eruption.) 

My husband doesn't like it when I cry because he doesn't understand what's happening. He will look at me and exclaim, "What?! What is it?!" fearing that he will be called to "do" something. He has a hard time distinguishing between the different forms of crying. This is probably because I also cry when I'm frustrated or angry. 

But I'm not really in the habit of crying much when I am sad or in grief. OK. Sometimes. But not reliably. For example, I cried from shock when Greg called me on December 14 to tell me Sigrid had suddenly died in the shower. A loud sputter of a sob. A wild cry. But then, it seemed done. Why was I done? My grief somehow "came too fast" I was very close with Sigrid, but for some reason I came away with the feeling that she had died a good clean death -- and those were the words I used when I was tasked with telling other close friends about there death. Even though she was only 52, and even though she leaves a huge hole in the hearts of hundreds of people who adored her, not the least her husband, my friend of 30 years. 

On the other side of the coin, when I heard Jack Sheldon had died on New Year's Eve a few days ago, I put on my headphones in Union Station while waiting for the train, and put on a clip from "Trying to Get Good" -- one of his trumpet solos followed by some of his singing "Where Do You Start" and I had to find a bench to sit down because of all the blubbering.

I saw Jack Sheldon perform maybe three times. I loved Sigrid like a sister. We confided in each other. We solved the world's problems. We ate potato chips with our champagne. We sat in the hot tub in a torrential downpour under umbrellas. A rich a full friendship -- but I have no tears for that? Maybe they haven't come yet.

Reading this over, I see I have made a slight error in failing to report that I have cried several times for Greg when I have heard some songs that make me realize how incredible [literal definition] and impossible to imagine his grief must be. Margaret and I were singing along to Carpenters songs at Mom's house after the Hogmanay had ended and everyone had gone to bed. I was especially choked up and ragged when we got to the song "I Won't Last A Day Without You" Especially the lines, 

When there's no gettin' over that rainbow. When the smallest of dreams won't come true.I can take all the madness the world has to give,But I won't last a day without you. 

But my own grief? Where is it? The same was true when my own grandmother died. When my beloved step-father died. When my grandfather and his wife died. An initial gasp and then, it's done.

For a sap like me, it's strange to contemplate. It's the problem with crying -- not fair. Not logical. Not proportional to experience.

My Blind Dog, Francis

I adopted a blind little white dog. Frankie: he was my little hobo, saved from the street, living in the dark, covered in filth for who knows how long. A lucky dog. So clever and cute and I overlooked the cloudy eyeball. So winning and independent, I didn’t think twice about the cataract in the other eye. He had a skip in his step and it seemed I could already hear his voice in my head. 

But then we got home, and there were issues. House-breaking issues. Pees and poos everywhere. Issues around the pool. Nightmares of the unheard Kerplunk. Suddenly, the house had become a fancy kennel, a maze of pet fencing, a labyrinth of worry. Don and I argued; we were frustrated. Had I made a terrible mistake? I looked for relief or at least the lesson. Out of the fog of some late night internet meander came John Milton, contemplating his own lack of sight.

On His Blindness

by John Milton

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."

“They also serve who only stand and wait” is the line, the gorgeous line everyone knows from this poem. And there on his fleecy bed waits Frankie in the dark, waits for me to end my work, for his walks, his treats, his dinner, his belly-rub. Even in his waiting -- his 14 daily hours of sleep, even in his pool of urine spreading out across the wood floor -- he serves. Serves to help me be more patient. To help me remember it’s nothing personal, “It’s just pee.”

“God doth not need either man’s work or his own gifts: who best bear his mild yoke, they serve him best” is, alas, where the real lesson lies – for Milton, for Frankie, for me.

Testing 1-2-3

I was made for bloggging. Blogging was made for me.

Been there done that: www.escottassociates.com.