Tears of Joy, (when beauty strikes…)

I’ve noticed recently how often I’m moved to tears. It’s a new development since I’ve entered the recovery phase after my husband’s death, and one I’ve been forced to acknowledge by its repetitive reality. Of course, my inner voice says, your nerves are a mess; overworked and undernourished. But that inner monologue also has another level, a lingering guilt muttering its furtive, toxic suggestions. Bad girl, it hisses. You’re such a baby and way too sensitive. Perhaps if you see how silly you are you’ll laugh instead of cry.

Oh my, that sounds familiar, even at a distance down a long tunnel I haven’t peered into for many years. I’ve written of my run-ins with the less sensitive members of the adult community I grew up in. The ‘crying towel’ that was supposed to make me laugh at myself and remind me I was ‘overdoing it’ again, has taken a prominent position in both blog essays and my memoir. As young as I was, I well remember they were always tears of fear, loss, embarrassment, frustration, anger or its kissing cousin, rage. Needless to say, the ‘crying towel’ meant to stave off reaction to these emotions was a failure and made me howl all the more.

I’ve also written before of unexpected tears shed as an adult after I had a melanoma operation. Having been lucky enough in life to avoid all hospital procedures of any kind, I found that one particularly challenging for both its true threat of cancer and its imagined menace of invasive destruction. Almost tear-free before the operation, I wept in my first bowl of oatmeal afterwards as the strains of Bach’s violin concerto wafted through the kitchen air when I returned home. I attributed those tears to relief triggered by Bach’s appreciation for all things natural and spiritual.  His music has always had a grounding effect on me, and I was particularly relieved to find myself back on terra firma with him at last.

But is that true? I must say with my latest foray into the river of unannounced, involuntary tears, I’ve come to believe they serve a different purpose. Of course the voice of guilt from my childhood had to be silenced once and for all. Not easy, but totally possible once I paid attention to it so it couldn’t whisper subliminal accusations to me. That done, I thought about my most recent bout of weeping and realized probably even my contact with Bach 6 years ago had been about a lot more than relief.

What tipped me off this time was the fact that I felt so good when it happened. It was music-induced again, but for a different reason. A young pianist I’d seen in a small Vermont town when he was only fifteen had just been announced as the soloist at Carnegie Hall in an appearance with the Philadelphia Philharmonic. I stopped in the middle of the floor to listen to him playing a Schumann impromptu, and suddenly found tears…of joy…pouring down my cheeks. The memories I had of his first live performance, his unusual grace and sophistication at such a young age and his beauty were all responsible for what happened.

Yes, he’s physically stunning as is his playing, but Jan Lisiecki is beautiful in his life as well as his music, and that incites a transcendent yearning that stirs up the depths of one’s inner being and reminds us there’s a truth nothing else can get at. I urge you to take advantage of the link embedded in Jan’s name above and enjoy that performance at Carnegie hall yourself. If you Google his name you’ll also find some wonderful YouTube footage of Jan preparing musicians to play one of his compositions when he was an angelic 10 year-old; and another interview when he was performing in China, a warm, witty, wonderful 20 year-old who may well bring new tears to your eyes.

David Brooks recently wrote of an unexpected brush with beauty and what it evoked in him. Follow the link just above in his name to read the essay in his own words. He points out an appreciation for beauty calls forth a humanistic worldview of exquisiteness worth cultivating. His Op-Ed piece reminded me of “the links between the beautiful, the true and the good—the way pleasure and love can lead to nobility.” Clearly, J.S. Bach is another one of those links, so I’d say those tears for him were also messengers of joy, just as the current tears for Jan Lisiecki’s music were. It’s a good sign. Clearly the pathways to my soul are finally opening again to possibilities. Just the way our bodies protect themselves from further injury, preventing the use of a hip rotation when a groin muscle is pulled, I know the emotions shut down their receptors when they’ve been overloaded to avoid total burnout. But when the conduits start to open up again, it’s a sign healing has started; so I’m delighted to see this is finally happening to me. And I would encourage anyone who finds themselves often and inexplicably in tears to be filled with the pride of being alive and sensitive.

As David Brooks suggested, we don’t put the same value on this broad, humanistic view of art and beauty today as we have in bygone years of a broader culture. But if you find yourself swimming in tears sometime in the beautiful future, appreciate them for what they are and forget the crying towel. Tears of joy don’t have to be quelled, hidden or wiped away.