The deliciousness of tears

I have come to love my tears. This may seem a curious thing to say, as we tend to associate tears with sadness. For many people they are something to be suppressed, a sign of weakness or vulnerability that should be hidden and kept out of public view. In grief we can be overwhelmed by tears that arise in unexpected moments, triggered by a piece of music, a kind word, a photograph, or a memory. They express that strange combination of love and loss, of pain and joy.

There are also the tears shed when watching a film or television drama. They may come in response to a poignant moment, a deep sadness, or a longed-for happy ending. Here the emotion is vicarious. The sadness or joy is not a direct response to our own life circumstances, yet the feelings are very real — an empathic resonance with the story unfolding on the screen.

Yet for me, tears flow not only in response to sadness or deep joy, but also in response to the recognition of a kind of truth. I have known this indirectly for many years, but recently it has become much clearer. I notice it when something I encounter — a conversation, a passage in a book, a reflection — enables a deeper seeing. In these moments there is a sudden inner recognition, and tears well up as a quiet, embodied yes. I now recognise these as tears of truth.

Often this truth has a mystical quality. It is not always easy to express in words; rather, there is a sense that something beyond words is recognising itself. It can happen while reading, when a phrase or insight lands with unexpected force and the tears rise. I have come to trust these tears and to sense that they are telling me something valuable.

In recent years there has been a growing recognition of the knowing of the body and the heart. The knowledge that can be articulated, described, and quantified — the knowing of the mind — is not the only path to understanding. There is also a deeper, relational knowing that runs through the body and underlies our shared lives. I am learning to listen.