The Therapeutic Art of Crying

Yesterday, the internet went down at my house. I am incredibly blessed to work from home most of the time and I use a web-based software program. So, as one of my clients put it, no internet is like no water. While I was on the phone with Comcast, on the third go around with the automated gal who desperately wanted to get me to the right department, but would not accept the one I pressed over and over, I sent a page to my printer. And then, silence. Crickets, as they say (I had to look that up on Urban Dictionary the first time I heard it. Crickets can be defined as “The sound of silence”, in case any of you are as old as me). The printer that my husband spent hours researching, making sure that it did all that my old, trusty printer did. The printer I said I didn’t need because the printer I bought, used, before my son was born was just fine. The printer that my husband secretly bought me for Christmas – probably the only thing he has ever successfully surprised me with in fifteen years – that had everything I could ever want in a printer. The printer I thanklessly received, partially due to shock at being surprised (I am what my aunt calls an investigator, to surprise me is extremely difficult), partially distraught at the idea of getting rid of my trusty, old machine, but mostly because I don’t like receiving gifts. After a few days, I did apologize for my awful reaction to the extremely kind, thoughtful gift, but the damage was done and I wouldn’t blame him if he never bought me another gift again! (But he will, because he loves me. And one day I will learn how to receive them.) Anyhow, the printer that I have grown to love, to need, was silent on my desk. The automated voice on the phone was telling me to press one, my kids were arguing in the living room, my husband was gone rescuing my mom who had just been in a fender bender, and I broke. I pressed the red circle on my cell phone to end the call, which surprisingly worked – I was sure my phone was broken considering all those ones I pressed that would not register. I turned the printer off. I shut my computer down. And I did what every mother does when she is stressed out, overwhelmed and cannot possibly take one more thing. I put my elbows on my desk, my hands over my face, and I cried.

I am not sure what is so therapeutic about a good cry, but after just a few minutes, I was rejuvenated and ready to give it another try. I uninstalled and reinstalled my printer after several attempts to diagnose the problem. I restarted everything and was delighted to hear the hum of the gears turning. Page printed…check. I called back and obeyed every command that Comcast’s automated assistant spoke. I booked an appointment for today and received instructions to use a temporary internet connection until the tech arrived to fix the problem. Check.

I know that I can’t pour from an empty cup. I have been here before, more often that I am comfortable admitting. So why, then, do I let the cup go dry? What is it about me that will run until I cannot run anymore, then crash, in order to regroup and try again? Maybe that’s why the tears are so effective – they put a little water in my cup. I am actively trying to stop this crazy cycle of fill, pour, crash, repeat. Surely there are warning signs. Maybe I just have to slow down long enough to recognize them. No one wins when my cup is empty. And no one is going to fill the cup for me.

I first heard of the Japanese art of Kintsugi from my pastor, which uses lacquer dusted with gold (or silver or platinum) to repair broken pottery. The vessel, once repaired, is not only more valuable after it is broken and pieced back together, it is also more beautiful. The art itself is beautiful, but the philosophy behind it gives me hope. You can Google “Kintsugi” it to get an educated definition (and to see the beautiful images of restored vessels), but basically the idea is to embrace imperfection, to accept change, and that broken does not mean useless. In his song, Mended, Matthew West put it beautifully: “When you see broken beyond repair, I see healing beyond belief.” So, tonight I find hope in the healing power of Jesus, and the Japanese art of Kintsugi.

If you are feeling vulnerable, leave me a comment. I would love to know how other mothers, women, or self-employed individuals in hi-stress jobs cope when their cup is empty. Do you know your warning signs? How do you keep from letting the cup go dry? And how do you refill it?