When you look into the glass eyes of antique Neapolitan figures, you can almost feel their tears. In no way do I claim to look like a madonna these days, more like a wailling banshee... My emotions are so off kilter, and close to the surface, I can't predict when the flood will flow - and flow it does - and often! I have tried to put a name to the tears, but as of yet, the stream is running too fast, and I cannot hear its song.
I don't think I am alone in this need to feel, and release my emotions, but few ever talk about it. Perhaps its a middle-age stage. A trial of sorts, that will help me cross over to what comes next. Is it regrets? Lost opportunities? The elephant in the living room? I just don't know. The salt dries my cheeks and makes me squint at the light, and then I am crying again.
Making art helps, long talks with my daughter helps, kisses from my dogs and husband helps, taking walks helps, eating blueberries helps... I want an endless list of things to help me, and yet, truth be known, in the moment, the tears feel good. As if I am giving up something, making way for something new.
Clearing the mud from the river...
