We need never be ashamed of our tears.
Charles Dickens
******************
Hello Marty
******************
"Real men don't cry." Nonsense. A man who will not allow himself to weep when he needs to is denying his own manhood. Sometimes human life seems to be a bucket of tears, pain and regrets. There are plenty of things worth crying about, not just spilt milk.
But sorrow can be a life line to joy. A good healthy shedding of tears can clean the mind and the heart of the mud of depression and hurts. Weeping can be the ritual of purgation for an accumulation of injustices. It is a compassionate comrade through an obscure night of the soul. It is the heart's answer to anger, resentment and rejection. A good cry cleans the slate.
Young actors have asked me how to cry on cue when performing in a play. I tell them that a genuine cry is easier than a genuine laugh. In both cases it takes connection to something genuine in the actor's life, either sympathetic or empathetic. In the case of tears, if one doesn't have something to cry about or isn't able to be sensitive to the circumstances of his character, he hasn't lived a life yet.
I remember doing a play in Philadelphia in which I had a speech about my long lost son. In the speech was the line "I never took him to a ball game." That simple reference, though only marginally personal to me, was enough to open up the gates of my reservoir of tears.
There are fake laughs everywhere. We are all guilty of them. But fake tears are worse. One can put on a sorrowful face, with a quivering voice and an occasional sniff and try to convince people that you're weeping, as I watched one defrocked TV evangelist do one day.
"What's so funny?" It is best to be genuine all the time. Find the humor and laugh at that. And if the heart tells you it needs to weep than let it happen, man or woman.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
Showing posts with label tears. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tears. Show all posts
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Don't Count The Drops
When I discover who I am, I'll be free.
Ralph Ellison
******************
Understanding ourselves is a formidable task. It's easier to count the rain drops in a storm. What makes it so hard is the vast tool shed we have of ways and means to avoid finding out and facing the truth about ourselves. Excuses, justifications, pretences, opinions and simple harmless lies are among them. Some things about ourselves are hard to face so we don't face them and eventually they slide into subconscious nooks and one day have to be dug out. Those things are beyond regret, so they are safe in their hiding places.
But they can't hide forever. During the past 4 days while folks were kicking up, beach combing and barbecuing I went through a deep dunk of solitary introspection which resulted in two things. One, it gave me a big eye opening realization about myself. And two, it sent me into an obscure night of the soul during which I felt like a pile of uncollected crud.
There isn't one particular nasty deed from my past but a whole string of them based on a particularly bad character trait that I didn't even realize I had. That flaw in my person accounts for a great many things I did wrong. I realize they were wrong but was unable to tell why I did them until yesterday.
I can't go back and apologize to all the people I must have hurt. I don't even remember some of them. I can't return and dry the tears of those who wept. I can't even dry my own tears. What's done is done.
The best thing to do now is to be grateful that this knowledge about myself finally came to the surface, to see the impulses and urges in me that caused the behavior and to avoid repeating the mistakes of the past.
One can watch his life go by like a magic lantern show, forever repeating the same fantasies or one can welcome the liberating light when it comes and resolve to live in it. It's better than counting rain drops, or tear drops.
Dana Bate
The Vagabond
********************
SUMMER QUESTION
(This is not a contest.)
Who are the 2 (two) most important people alive today? Why?
Only 7 responses so far. Summer is about to close her gates. Get with it. Don’t be left out in the heat.
dbdacoba@aol.com
Thank you.
DB
********************
Ralph Ellison
******************
Understanding ourselves is a formidable task. It's easier to count the rain drops in a storm. What makes it so hard is the vast tool shed we have of ways and means to avoid finding out and facing the truth about ourselves. Excuses, justifications, pretences, opinions and simple harmless lies are among them. Some things about ourselves are hard to face so we don't face them and eventually they slide into subconscious nooks and one day have to be dug out. Those things are beyond regret, so they are safe in their hiding places.
But they can't hide forever. During the past 4 days while folks were kicking up, beach combing and barbecuing I went through a deep dunk of solitary introspection which resulted in two things. One, it gave me a big eye opening realization about myself. And two, it sent me into an obscure night of the soul during which I felt like a pile of uncollected crud.
There isn't one particular nasty deed from my past but a whole string of them based on a particularly bad character trait that I didn't even realize I had. That flaw in my person accounts for a great many things I did wrong. I realize they were wrong but was unable to tell why I did them until yesterday.
I can't go back and apologize to all the people I must have hurt. I don't even remember some of them. I can't return and dry the tears of those who wept. I can't even dry my own tears. What's done is done.
The best thing to do now is to be grateful that this knowledge about myself finally came to the surface, to see the impulses and urges in me that caused the behavior and to avoid repeating the mistakes of the past.
One can watch his life go by like a magic lantern show, forever repeating the same fantasies or one can welcome the liberating light when it comes and resolve to live in it. It's better than counting rain drops, or tear drops.
Dana Bate
The Vagabond
********************
SUMMER QUESTION
(This is not a contest.)
Who are the 2 (two) most important people alive today? Why?
Only 7 responses so far. Summer is about to close her gates. Get with it. Don’t be left out in the heat.
dbdacoba@aol.com
Thank you.
DB
********************
Friday, June 5, 2009
Inimical Instructions 6/05/09
Don't let anyone tell you that it doesn't matter what you think. Of course it matters. Above all else thinking matters the most.
DB - The Vagabond
*********************
Greetings
______________________
Things that must be written, must be written.
I made an appointment and went to see a very wise man, a well known provider of good advice and positive, practical solutions to life's problems and difficulties, My problem was that I felt I had no purpose and direction in my life, that I was aimlessly working as an actor with no reason nor objective, that I really didn't have any value in the world. In response to his questions I told him about growing up.
My father died when I was 4 years old. They never told me that he died. All they said was that he wasn't coming back. My mother, my grandmother, my sister and my brother; none of them told me. They say that I cried for many days afterward. For the next 8 years I expected him to return. The phone would ring, there was a knock on the door, it might be my father. I would look out the windows of cars and buses to see if he was walking down the street. Why did he abandon me? It must be my fault. I wanted to find him, to apologize and bring him back home. Finally, at the age of about 12 years, I accepted that he was in truth never coming back. Why didn't they tell me? Why wasn't I valuable or important enough to be told the truth?
The relationship with my mother was adversarial, My brother and sister left shortly after that, but when they were around they either ignored me or were critical of me. There was no love. I was not liked at home.
I grew up without my father's wisdom, advice, judgment, encouragement or approval.
I missed him. Ironically, it was at my mother's funeral, 40 years later, that I could grieve for him. At the cemetary I was placed in a chair directly over my father's grave and for the first time I read his tombstone. He was a young man when he went, only 53. He was a Lieutenant/Colonel in the U.S. Army. I wanted,with all my heart, to know the guy and wanted him to know me, his son. I wept.
"There is a sacredness in tears" Washington Irving said
As I spoke on with that wise man, I told him about the influences on my life after my father's death. How I had been criticized and minimized and disapproved of by everyone around me. How I had fought to reject other people's opinions of me and how I was trying to establish in my own thinking a positive structure of self-respect and self-approval but that I was having trouble doing it and needed help. Then this wise man, the purveyor of positive advice and well being said to me "Well, fortunately it makes no difference what you think."
How, after listening to my tale of deprivation and woe, could this wise man, this guru of positive thinking, this friend of mankind, this generous and compassionate dispenser of good, sound advice tell me that it makes no difference what I think?
I left his office believing him, and his words sank down into the very bottom of my being. After losing my father and not told why, after the scorn and resentment from members of my family and to be told it doesn't matter what I think, I realized what I was: a useless thumb on the hand of the world, a worthless appendage that needed to be amputated, something taking up space for no reason. As someone once said to me "I don't understand why you're still alive."
Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made:
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange,
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Hark! now I hear them, ding-dong, bell.
Shakespeare
In my mid 50s, when I had outlived my father, I began to understand some things. I began to put some pieces together and throw out some others. I may be a worthless and annoying hunk of junk as far as the world is concerned, I thought, but I was still alive, I was working, supporting myself and entertaining people. And if there was only one thing I knew it was that it did matter what I thought. My thinking was just as valid and important to the world as anyone else's. Thinking matters the most. And one who thinks is not a useless appendage, taking up space. That's something my father might have taught me when I was just a boy.
Shakespeare also wrote "There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so."
Even today, at 70, I miss my father. I miss what we might have meant to each other. I want the love only a father can give. I want the advice of someone who cares about me. I want the companionship of the man I can look up to and admire. I want the words of encouragement and approval from the man who is grateful I was born and is glad I'm alive. I want my Dad.
DB
*****************
DB - The Vagabond
*********************
Greetings
______________________
Things that must be written, must be written.
I made an appointment and went to see a very wise man, a well known provider of good advice and positive, practical solutions to life's problems and difficulties, My problem was that I felt I had no purpose and direction in my life, that I was aimlessly working as an actor with no reason nor objective, that I really didn't have any value in the world. In response to his questions I told him about growing up.
My father died when I was 4 years old. They never told me that he died. All they said was that he wasn't coming back. My mother, my grandmother, my sister and my brother; none of them told me. They say that I cried for many days afterward. For the next 8 years I expected him to return. The phone would ring, there was a knock on the door, it might be my father. I would look out the windows of cars and buses to see if he was walking down the street. Why did he abandon me? It must be my fault. I wanted to find him, to apologize and bring him back home. Finally, at the age of about 12 years, I accepted that he was in truth never coming back. Why didn't they tell me? Why wasn't I valuable or important enough to be told the truth?
The relationship with my mother was adversarial, My brother and sister left shortly after that, but when they were around they either ignored me or were critical of me. There was no love. I was not liked at home.
I grew up without my father's wisdom, advice, judgment, encouragement or approval.
I missed him. Ironically, it was at my mother's funeral, 40 years later, that I could grieve for him. At the cemetary I was placed in a chair directly over my father's grave and for the first time I read his tombstone. He was a young man when he went, only 53. He was a Lieutenant/Colonel in the U.S. Army. I wanted,with all my heart, to know the guy and wanted him to know me, his son. I wept.
"There is a sacredness in tears" Washington Irving said
As I spoke on with that wise man, I told him about the influences on my life after my father's death. How I had been criticized and minimized and disapproved of by everyone around me. How I had fought to reject other people's opinions of me and how I was trying to establish in my own thinking a positive structure of self-respect and self-approval but that I was having trouble doing it and needed help. Then this wise man, the purveyor of positive advice and well being said to me "Well, fortunately it makes no difference what you think."
How, after listening to my tale of deprivation and woe, could this wise man, this guru of positive thinking, this friend of mankind, this generous and compassionate dispenser of good, sound advice tell me that it makes no difference what I think?
I left his office believing him, and his words sank down into the very bottom of my being. After losing my father and not told why, after the scorn and resentment from members of my family and to be told it doesn't matter what I think, I realized what I was: a useless thumb on the hand of the world, a worthless appendage that needed to be amputated, something taking up space for no reason. As someone once said to me "I don't understand why you're still alive."
Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made:
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange,
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Hark! now I hear them, ding-dong, bell.
Shakespeare
In my mid 50s, when I had outlived my father, I began to understand some things. I began to put some pieces together and throw out some others. I may be a worthless and annoying hunk of junk as far as the world is concerned, I thought, but I was still alive, I was working, supporting myself and entertaining people. And if there was only one thing I knew it was that it did matter what I thought. My thinking was just as valid and important to the world as anyone else's. Thinking matters the most. And one who thinks is not a useless appendage, taking up space. That's something my father might have taught me when I was just a boy.
Shakespeare also wrote "There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so."
Even today, at 70, I miss my father. I miss what we might have meant to each other. I want the love only a father can give. I want the advice of someone who cares about me. I want the companionship of the man I can look up to and admire. I want the words of encouragement and approval from the man who is grateful I was born and is glad I'm alive. I want my Dad.
DB
*****************
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Nouvelle Nuages 4/18/09
Let the formation of the clouds show in the view of man on earth, that he may bear witness to the manner of the unseen becoming seen.
John Newbrough
*********************
Hello interesting one. I managed to read and comment on one journal today before the gangster computer seized up and I had to log off and start over. At that rate I'll be getting around to all of you by the autumn. Hopefully I'll get it fixed soon.
--------------------------------------
I flew from New York to West Palm Beach for a job. Due to a malfunction with the aircraft takeoff was delayed for an hour, which turned out to be a blessing. It meant we were flying through Florida at sunset. The rest of the cast was spread around the plane in various seats so I didn't have to talk to anyone. I was sitting on the right side next to the window and what I saw amazed and dazzled me. I didn't take my face away from that window until night fell. I saw the surface of a planet passing by. There were bright red lakes and rivers, mountains with flowing streams, plains with foliage, giant bushes, deep wells. It was a vast landscape of bright orange/red and grayish purple. And yet it was in reality the setting sun peering through and lighting up the clouds.
It was a magnificent sight. I have tried many times to recreate what I saw with paints on canvas. I can't do it. It was a once in a lifetime experience. There will be other such sights, and none the same as that one. I felt especially crowned with fortune that I saw it.
If you've ever flown above them on a cloudy day you know how substantial they look. It seems that if you stepped out of the aircraft you could walk on them. They are the largest, fullest things in nature that have almost no substance to them.
I have sat and seen clouds in the sky slowly disappear as the sun dried up the moisture that made them. But even more remarkable is to see them form out of nothing. A small wisp of white in the sky slowly gathers size from somewhere until it covers the sky. A sunny day becomes a cloudy day, a happy day becomes a troubled day, the unseen becomes seen.
"Where did these dismal feelings come from? What happened to the sunshine of joy I felt a while back? Why am I now blanketed with sorrow? I didn't foresee this. What happened?"
Then, just as the rain may come and empty out the clouds, the tears may come and clean the heart of clouds. They came from nowhere, they went nowhere and though they may have seemed quite substantial at the time. there was nothing to them.
The unseen becomes seen, the seen becomes unseen, and life goes on.
Et resurrexit.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
__________________________
Joyous weekend to you wherever you are.
***********************************
BTW: Yesterday's Journal entry was not about death.
John Newbrough
*********************
Hello interesting one. I managed to read and comment on one journal today before the gangster computer seized up and I had to log off and start over. At that rate I'll be getting around to all of you by the autumn. Hopefully I'll get it fixed soon.
--------------------------------------
I flew from New York to West Palm Beach for a job. Due to a malfunction with the aircraft takeoff was delayed for an hour, which turned out to be a blessing. It meant we were flying through Florida at sunset. The rest of the cast was spread around the plane in various seats so I didn't have to talk to anyone. I was sitting on the right side next to the window and what I saw amazed and dazzled me. I didn't take my face away from that window until night fell. I saw the surface of a planet passing by. There were bright red lakes and rivers, mountains with flowing streams, plains with foliage, giant bushes, deep wells. It was a vast landscape of bright orange/red and grayish purple. And yet it was in reality the setting sun peering through and lighting up the clouds.
It was a magnificent sight. I have tried many times to recreate what I saw with paints on canvas. I can't do it. It was a once in a lifetime experience. There will be other such sights, and none the same as that one. I felt especially crowned with fortune that I saw it.
If you've ever flown above them on a cloudy day you know how substantial they look. It seems that if you stepped out of the aircraft you could walk on them. They are the largest, fullest things in nature that have almost no substance to them.
I have sat and seen clouds in the sky slowly disappear as the sun dried up the moisture that made them. But even more remarkable is to see them form out of nothing. A small wisp of white in the sky slowly gathers size from somewhere until it covers the sky. A sunny day becomes a cloudy day, a happy day becomes a troubled day, the unseen becomes seen.
"Where did these dismal feelings come from? What happened to the sunshine of joy I felt a while back? Why am I now blanketed with sorrow? I didn't foresee this. What happened?"
Then, just as the rain may come and empty out the clouds, the tears may come and clean the heart of clouds. They came from nowhere, they went nowhere and though they may have seemed quite substantial at the time. there was nothing to them.
The unseen becomes seen, the seen becomes unseen, and life goes on.
Et resurrexit.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
__________________________
Joyous weekend to you wherever you are.
***********************************
BTW: Yesterday's Journal entry was not about death.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Sacred Sadness 3/28/09
Life is like an onion: we peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes we weep.
Carl Sanburg
******************
Be my guest.
-----------------------
The older we get, the more of those onion skins we have peeled off, the closer we have gotten to the juicier parts and hence the more likely we are to weep. We weep for many reasons; for loss, for regrets, for things we have forgotten or tried to forget, failed love affairs, the ingratitude of children, friend's betrayals dashed hopes, the loss of faith, all sorts of things that didn't work out in life, for injustices, insults, slanders, lies, thefts, cruelties, shame, fears, missed opportunities, doubts, depression, confusion and a feeling of having lived not enough.
There are other reasons to weep, good ones. We may weep when suddenly coming upon something indescribably beautiful, the unexpected kindness of someone, a vigorous expression of approval for who we are, the recovery of a treasure we thought we had lost, a reminder of past happiness and goodness, the surge in our hearts for the love of someone, a baby's smile, an old familiar song.
Tears are the mind's rain storm that washes the ground and makes it sparkle so that new experiences are allowed to grow in it. You are not less of a man nor too much of a woman if you weep. The hot fires of overwhelming feelings will seek the dousing of tears. The epitome of devotion is found in the weeping of joy and sacrifice. As Washington Irving wrote "There is a sacredness in tears."
Fear not the onion.
DB - The Vagabond
__________________
May you win more than just the lottery.
Carl Sanburg
******************
Be my guest.
-----------------------
The older we get, the more of those onion skins we have peeled off, the closer we have gotten to the juicier parts and hence the more likely we are to weep. We weep for many reasons; for loss, for regrets, for things we have forgotten or tried to forget, failed love affairs, the ingratitude of children, friend's betrayals dashed hopes, the loss of faith, all sorts of things that didn't work out in life, for injustices, insults, slanders, lies, thefts, cruelties, shame, fears, missed opportunities, doubts, depression, confusion and a feeling of having lived not enough.
There are other reasons to weep, good ones. We may weep when suddenly coming upon something indescribably beautiful, the unexpected kindness of someone, a vigorous expression of approval for who we are, the recovery of a treasure we thought we had lost, a reminder of past happiness and goodness, the surge in our hearts for the love of someone, a baby's smile, an old familiar song.
Tears are the mind's rain storm that washes the ground and makes it sparkle so that new experiences are allowed to grow in it. You are not less of a man nor too much of a woman if you weep. The hot fires of overwhelming feelings will seek the dousing of tears. The epitome of devotion is found in the weeping of joy and sacrifice. As Washington Irving wrote "There is a sacredness in tears."
Fear not the onion.
DB - The Vagabond
__________________
May you win more than just the lottery.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)