Spell Component
There are things the body knows before the mind does.
Tears are one of them.
We tend to treat crying as a failure of composure.
Something has gotten through.
Something broke.
Something became too much.
But perhaps tears aren’t evidence that something has gone wrong.
Perhaps they’re evidence that something has finally been allowed to move.
A tear can carry grief.
But it can also carry relief.
A person can cry because someone died.
They can cry because someone survived.
They can cry because they finally feel safe.
They can cry because they have been strong for too long and someone finally asked:
“Are you okay?”
They can cry because somebody was unexpectedly kind.
They can cry because a song found an old room inside them.
They can cry because they laughed so hard their body forgot what emotion it was supposed to be having.
The body is not nearly as interested in our categories as we are.
A tear is a small thing.
Almost nothing.
Water.
Salt.
A little bit of chemistry leaving the body.
And yet human beings have built entire languages around them.
We say:
tears of joy.
tears of grief.
tears of rage.
tears of relief.
As though the water itself changes depending on what spell called it forth.
Perhaps it does.
Not chemically.
Something stranger.
Meaning.
I think tears are an actuator.
Not the spell itself.
The thing that makes the spell happen.
Something has been held.
Something has been resisted.
Something has been felt.
And then—
release.
The system changes state.
The spell has fired.
You may not even know what spell you were casting.
You don’t necessarily need to.
Sometimes the tears come before the explanation.
That’s worth noticing.
You can spend an hour saying:
“I’m fine.”
“It’s nothing.”
“I’m just tired.”
And then your eyes betray you.
The body has apparently filed a report.
SUBJECT IS NOT FINE.
REPORT ATTACHED.
No appeal permitted.
This doesn’t mean every tear needs to be investigated.
Sometimes you just cry.
Drink some water.
Blow your nose.
Wash your face.
Continue.
Not everything needs to become a revelation.
But sometimes a tear is a little lantern.
It illuminates something you couldn’t see in the dark.
Something mattered.
Something hurt.
Something mattered because it hurt.
Something beautiful reached you.
Something you thought you had lost was still alive somewhere inside you.
There is another kind of tear I find especially interesting.
The one that comes when someone finally understands you.
Not agrees with you.
Not fixes you.
Not tells you what you should have done.
Just—
understands.
For a moment, the armor isn’t necessary.
You don’t have to translate yourself.
You don’t have to defend your experience.
You don’t have to make it smaller so somebody else can hold it.
Someone simply says:
“I see you.”
And the spell fires.
Perhaps this is why tears sometimes appear at inconvenient times.
In the grocery store.
In the car.
While watching something ridiculous.
During a conversation you thought was going to be ordinary.
The body has terrible scheduling.
It does not care that you have errands.
It does not care that you’re supposed to be professional.
It does not care that you’ve decided you’re done feeling that particular thing.
The body keeps its own calendar.
Eventually:
YOUR APPOINTMENT WITH THIS FEELING HAS ARRIVED.
So I don’t think tears should always be wiped away as quickly as possible.
Sometimes let one fall.
You don’t have to perform it.
You don’t have to explain it.
You don’t have to apologize.
Let the spell complete itself.
Then breathe.
Notice what remains.
Sometimes there is sadness.
Sometimes there is peace.
Sometimes there is nothing at all.
And sometimes—
there is a little more room inside you.
Perhaps that’s what tears are really good at.
Making room.
They don’t solve grief.
They don’t undo the past.
They don’t repair what was broken.
But they can loosen the grip of something that has been held too tightly.
A little water.
A little salt.
A little surrender.
And suddenly you can breathe again.
So if you find yourself crying, remember:
You are not necessarily falling apart.
Something may simply be moving.
You may be grieving.
You may be healing.
You may be relieved.
You may be remembering.
You may be loving something enough that your body has run out of quieter ways to say it.
You don’t have to know which.
You can let the spell work.
And when the tears are finished, look around.
You are still here.
The world is still here.
Take a breath.
Then take the next step.
Tears are not always a sign that the spell has failed.
Sometimes—
they are the spell component that makes it work.
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