I discovered early in life that there are two elements to living; the positive and the negative. I also learned that these elements are a part of every thing. On the opposite of strength, there is  weakness. And sometimes the positive and negative forces, within us and as constant components of life, almost tear us apart. I have observed that most people, however miserable, usually want to be happy.  We wish our existence could be more like a merry-go-round ride and less of a roller-coaster, but life sometimes has a way of punching one in the stomach so hard, through all kinds of adverse circumstances and events, that the person punched feels like giving up… or puking :)

I was pondering on the existence of opposition in all things while I was seated in a first class cabin of American Airlines (where I work) one Saturday morning, when I met an elderly woman who had just participated in the Senior Special Olympics. This little lady had placed in five events and very happily announced she won both silver and gold medals for discus, shot-put, and the long jump. In fact, she broke her own discus record. Then she proudly told me that she was in her eighties.

After witnessing this woman’s strength of spirit, not being held back at all by her age and its physical challenges, as well as the joy she still finds in life, I felt a positive energy that made me want to burst right out of my seat and do cartwheels down the aisle of that jetliner.


Her example made me ask myself, “Why should we ever give up or dwell on the negative?”  It makes no sense. No amount of terrorism, depression, or evil will ever overtake the positive side of so many who surround our lives every day; those who have not quit no matter how much adversity they face. It is the spirit of people like this woman, which exists within our families, our friends, our coworkers, and comrades, which rejuvenates us all.  It changes our society, and our world.  A sweet elderly woman who shared her joy with me that day has changed me, and helped me view my own challenges with a greater desire to overcome! I hope this story has restored your positive spirit… and that you will pass on the optimism in your own special way!


Sandy Russell

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  Stupid, Blessed Tears

“Stupid, stupid tears,” I mutter ducking my head and swiping at my cheek. Letting the door slam solidly behind me, I scurry down the stairs anxious to reach a private place free from prying eyes. My meltdowns are not pretty.

I wait until the courthouse is behind me and I am alone before giving in totally to my despair. “For heaven’s sake," I say to no one but myself, "what is this all about?”

A tissue to the eyes, I wonder how come "bona-fide-feel-it-in-the-gut-blubber-and-sob tears" cannot come with a little dignity. A few can pull it off. You know the kind, a little trickle down the cheek, a gentle swipe of the finger, a self-respecting sob that evokes sympathy and care.

Not me. I am most decidedly not a dignified crier. When I cry, I do it with gusto. My eyes puff up, my mascara runs, and my face turns intermittent, varied shades of blotchy red. Once I gather steam, I snivel and hiccup, then sob and suck air.

My tears do not gently meander, they run in torrents and unless I stem the flow, they mingle with the product of my runny nose before dripping ceremoniously off my chin. A dainty hanky is not worthy of the task. I need a handful of tissues. In their absence, I have been known to use McDonald napkins, crumpled paper, the ugly green cloth used to clean my eyeglasses.

The o’le fibromyalgia is kicking up its leg. Maybe that is the problem. Could be the sight of prisoners shackled together, shuffling one behind the other and the reminder of another courthouse, on another day so many years ago. I do a quick inventory in my mind searching for a reason for the tears. Hormones? No. Husband? No. Too many to-do’s? Maybe, but certainly nothing worthy of an emotional crumble.

Nevertheless, the tears continue to flow. I hasten to my vehicle, slip behind the wheel, close the door, and roll up the tinted windows hoping for anonymity. I look in the rear view mirror. Sure enough, I am a mess. Well, I reason, no sense in wasting them. If I am gonna cry, I might as well think about something worthy of my weeping. I think of a few pressures threatening to pull me under. Money is tight, my mom's sick . . . that will work. My feet hurt. Might as well add that to the list. Before long, I am blubbering with the best of them.

I will do most anything to keep from crying in front of others, which explains why I practically stand on my head not to do it. I will bite my tongue, suck on my cheek, and pinch myself if necessary. There is nothing private about tears in a public venue. I can go from being a have-it-together-momma to a blubbering idiot in less than 60 seconds.

But that is okay.

Really it is.

Tears are a gift. They have a way of humbling me when I forget that I am human. They are cleansing and healing. I reckon that is why God lets us cry. Someone told me once that if my head did not leak, it would pop. Whatever.

I like to think that, with all of my experience, I am a seasoned expert when it comes to tears. I can spot a crier a mile away - even a closet crier, which is no small feat. It takes a trained eye but for the most part, they all respond pretty much the same. They avoid eye contact, hide their face behind their hands, duck their head, and mumble untruths like, "Must be something in my eye." Then they turn and run the other way.

What happens when the crier is confined to a wheelchair? Or, their feet cannot move beyond a shuffle?

One day not long ago, I spotted a closet crier. Molly* was sitting in her wheelchair, just around the corner from the desk where I sometimes work as Concierge at Sunrise Senior Living at Pinehurst. I am not sure what it was about her that caught my eye. Maybe a stifled sob or a flick of the finger across her cheek. Whatever it was, when I looked her way, she averted her gaze. She was quick, but not quick enough to evade detection. She ducked her head, and then tried to hide her face behind her hands.

Not wanting to embarrass her, I grabbed a handful of tissues, my mobile phone and made my way to her. I am certain she was not happy that I had spotted her softly crying. I wheeled her to a quiet nook away from prying eyes then, bending low, I gently probed, “What’s the matter Molly? Why are you crying?”

I deduced rather quickly that, unlike me when I am weeping, Molly is a dignified crier. Her eyes were red, but not overly so. Her tears flowed gently, not in a torrent. Nevertheless, even a novice could see that her heart was broken. She tried to minimize the pain, but once she was convinced that I really cared, she settled in my presence. I pressed the tissues into her gnarled hand. She smiled a gentle smile that did not quite reach her eyes then she dabbed at her tears and nose. “I’ll be okay.”

“Talk to me Molly. What’s wrong?”

“My family said they were coming today, but they never came.”

I wanted to cry with her. What might be a little thing to an able-bodied, busy, younger family member was huge to her. She had waited patiently all day long for them to come, and they had not come! A part of me felt a twinge of protective anger. For heaven sakes, don't they understand that she needs them? My frustration quickly passed. Maybe Molly misunderstood. People are busy. Things happen. Maybe the slight was innocent and unintentional.

I knelt beside her chair, pulled her head close to mine and whispered, "I'm sorry Molly." I tucked her hand in mine and we sat quietly. Once her tears were spent, she calmed. Being a seasoned crier, I know all the tricks of the trade. I slipped into the Bistro for a cool cloth to wipe her eyes. That would help the swelling as well as the red blotches on her face. I gave her a drink of water. Then I said something silly, and she smiled. This time it made it to her eyes. Within minutes, she was ready for a push back to the parlor - no worse for wear. Only a fellow closet crier would be able to detect any lingering sign of tears.

It does not happen all the time, but it does happen. When it does, I bring tissues for the eyes and nose. I assure the crier that it is okay to cry. Then I listen. The stories are rarely the same. Sometimes the tears are for a mate no longer living. Or, as with Molly, a promised visit that did not materialize. Once in awhile, it is just plain old homesickness for a community of friends and a lifestyle that is rapidly changing. Sometimes the crier just wants to go home, except there is no longer a home to go home to.

Frankly, I am glad I am not a dignified crier. When I say, "I understand!" I really do. I have learned my lessons well. A good cry is cleansing. It is healing. A cold washcloth, a drink of water, a little time and no one is the wiser.

What never stays the same is our relationship. We are closer because we have shared a moment and a heartache. Murmured thanks are sweet, but not nearly as sweet as the bridge we have built linking their heart to mine. Forever after we can share a conspiratorial look between us that only we "get." We are bound heart-to-heart.

Blessed, blessed tears.

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You have the power to make a simple, life-enhancing, change in the depth of your pain or unhappiness by shifting your perspective.  I say simple, but simple doesn’t mean easy.  It can be challenging to step outside of your current veiw and see tragedy from a new light.  However, it is very possible to find and follow a new outlook on your loss and it's significance.  Your adversity can become something meaningful and even valuable in your life as you come to recognize all the gifts your adversity has brought you as fair compensation for what you've lost (and there is always good to be found!).  The simplest way I can suggest to change your perspective, enough to create an entirely new experience as you strive to overcome grief, is to serve others.  When you do, you find purpose and meaning in your experience, and that changes everything!

There can be many ways to serve others, but one of the most effective and easiest ways I have found is to share your story!  By writing your story, including all you have experienced, bad and good, you provide an extremely important example we all need.  It is comforting for people to know they are not alone in their struggle.  As you write your story, you will have yet another opportunity to change your perspective because you are writing for the benefit of others.  There is space to step outside yourself and view the challenge from the angle of a researcher, in a new light, one which can allow you to see benefits and positive results from your experience as you strive to teach others. 

Melanie Davis
The Triumph Book Author
 www.TheTriumphBook.com

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As I watched an opening game of World Cup Soccer while running on the treadmill at the health club (there was no audio), I witnessed a scene so impressive it literally stopped me in my tracks.  As the two teams of players walked simultaneously out onto the field, each athlete was holding the hand of a young boy dressed in his own soccer uniform.  The juxtaposition between the strong, confident, expert and the young protégé, looking up to his companion in great pride and admiration as he hustled to keep up with the athletic strut, was profound.  In these few moments at the start of a popular sport was the representation of life’s circle of wisdom and growth.  The height of physical health and perfection  walked hand-in-hand with the rising generation of future World Cup contenders whose journey to this moment was essentially just beginning.  The comparisons which could be made to this scene, and the depth of truths represented, made this perhaps the most dramatic moment of the entire tournament.

Melanie Davis
The Triumph Book Author
Melanie@TheTriumphBook.com
www.TheTriumphBook.com

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Driving down a tree-lined road of Yellowstone National Park, ahead of me two chipmunks were frolicking and playing tag.  As I approached their playground, they darted in front of my path and I felt the lub-dub of a small body beneath my tire. “I killed her best friend!” I screamed to myself in horror.  I couldn’t help personifying the little chipmunks and thus feeling the pain and grief of the solitary chipmunk left in “shock” at the loss of her dear one.  My grief for being the killer of such a happy companionship was intense.  I bawled the rest of the day and at this moment I can still recollect the pain of a love cut short for this little couple.

I was a young woman then, working my way through college as a tour guide in Yellowstone.  In many ways this was my first real bout of grief.  Many years later I would find my third daughter, seven months old, lifeless in her crib.  Eight years after that, my dearest friend passed away unexpectedly as she collapsed, lungs full of blood, into her husbands arms; leaving behind five young children and a hole that could never be filled in my life or theirs. 

Just a few days ago I saw a racoon on the side of the highway, sprawled in a death pose which reflected the violence and pain of the process.  Once again I bawled, chest heaving as I sobbed, in sympathy and sorrow for the tragic scene.

One could surmise that this display of emotion is a sign that I have unresolved grief from bigger losses, after all it was just road-kill… but I know this is not true. Grief is often felt, and expressed, in the same way regardless of the size or personal connection to the source.  I felt real and sincere sorrow at the scene of the chipmunk death every bit as much as my daughter’s passing. When we attribute more ominous meaning to sorrow, calling it unresolved or a sign that someone “really needs help,” we fail to realize this one simple truth: grief is grief, no matter how small.  We also destructively define grief as something harmful, an emotion we should avoid.

I consider myself whole and healed from my deep and personal losses.  I have found purpose in my tragedies and live with hope, yet I frequently cry when I watch news stories of violence, death or abuse.  When I see a lump on the road, I pray it isn’t an animal and feel great relief when it turns out to be a plastic bag in a heap.  Being healed from tragedy and sorrow doesn’t mean that grief never run its course or doesn’t surprise us as an unwelcomed invader.  In some ways, not fearing grief has allowed it to enter my life more frequently.  I can honestly say, however, that there is something refreshing and enlivening to feel, move through and release grief.  The more grief we allow to enter and leave us, the deeper we live and the greater our peace.  That has been my experience.

Melanie Davis
The Triumph Book Author
www.TheTriumphBook.com

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