It was wild wonderful times for parents and children alike. Self help, "I" statements, empowerment, CHOOSE LIFE, call-in advice radio shows (remember Dr Toni Grant?).......everyone was invested in getting better somehow, working on themselves, doing some sort of personal growth. Ma was constantly attending "workshops," "seminars", est, intrigued by crystals and shamans; even dad was driving up to Esalen to find himself, which usually meant he was finding himself in a new relationship, but I give him credit for trying. He once described an encounter group he attended up there as the scariest thing he ever did. Self help was on the rise for us kids too; at the beachfront "open school" I attended in 6-8th grades, we regularly had "feeling sessions," which was essentially group therapy.
One of the best things to come out of this age of trendy soul searching was FREE TO BE YOU AND ME, which we would listen to over and over again and act out in front of the relatives or stuffed animals or whoever'd care to see us be part of that "land that I see where the children are free..."
One night we were all sitting around on the big paisley pillows in the living room with the newly pulled up hardwood floors--bye bye stringy white carpeting--and doing our weeknight thing. Ben and I were likely fighting or playing soccer in the hallway or wrestling while Ma and her boyfriend Jay lounged on the gigantic pillows, smoking cigarettes, just hanging out, literally...before video games, cable, etc—a huge round heaping ashtray in the center of the pile of pillows. Then Ma goes over to the record player and turns it up real loud to a song I'd never heard before...A big cuddly football player voice booms out of the big brown speakers..."It's alright to cry... crying gets the sad out of you..." The melody swells with a rich melancholia that my body seems to recognize at once... "Raindrops from your eyes... washing all the mad out of ya..."
I'm not sure who went first, but almost immediately we were all sitting in that huge heap of huge pillows crying our eyes out. Sobbing. Gushing. At one point Ma looked over at me and said, "it's alright to cry, honey," which made me cry even harder. Even my brother was crying because... why not? It's just what you did. It got the sad out of ya. It made you feel better. It was raindrops from your eyes and that was cool.
How hard or long this went on or how deeply it ran, I cannot recall. I can recall the little hills of kleenex that fortressed around us, around our pillow mountain. I can recall Ma getting up a few times to set the needle back in place so we could hear the song again and I can recall the longing and relief my body experienced to hear it sung just one more time.
I can recall the calm afterwards, how we drifted quietly in our own little islands, eventually downstream back into the flow of life.
I like to believe that in that age of self-help all the tears we shed that night were begging to come out, freed at just the right time. There was a lot going on for us and given the okay to release the depth of our feelings must have been a huge relief. I have mixed feelings about them being coaxed out by Hollywood, but that was the times, our life at that time. Our tears were supported, allowed, even invited by the times. It didn't even matter if Ma had the entire thing planned and was trying it out on us to see if it worked.
I think it did. I'm not sure if I've ever cried that hard again.
When was the last time you had a good cry?
AND... AND...AND...AND...AND...AND...AND...AND...
If it's been a while and you're feeling a little dried out, please consider crying into my bowl of tears here at the Beach at my upcoming WRITING GRIEF RETREAT on November 3 for a day of healing, community, and letting go. It was a powerful and loving retreat last year and promises to be the same this year. I have a few spots left!
... raindrops from your eyes... Hope to write (and maybe cry!) with you soon!
No comments:
Post a Comment