For some girls, our comfort zone falls into the, “Ew, get those emotions away from me,” category. We’re not heartless. We’re just rarely found crying, becoming perturbed over nothing or going to the ladies room in a gaggle. Public cry spells humiliation for girls like that.
A fave client throws retreats designed to strengthen the soul and uplift the heart. This day’s theme: Moving Forward.
Three leaders talk angels, past lives and loves, energy in the room and letting go. A woman speaks for her friend. She’s troubled. She works too hard. She’s taken for granted. The friend tells her story, mostly of exhaustion and overwrought and begins to cry.
Happens all the time. Not to me. But it happens. Another chimes in. The room’s sorrow is palpable. A single tear. Another. And then another. WTF? I chastise. I reach for the Kleenex and it’s not to pass it to someone. Tears have a life of their own, multiplying for no reason. I excuse myself and become the chick crying in the bathroom.
Lunch break. Lighter mood. Must be temporary insanity.
Guided meditation is next. I may cross my legs and close my eyes but my brain says, “You have to stop at the grocery store. Did you love or hate Megan Markle’s dress? I bet she had to wear long sleeves. Is my shoe too tight? Maybe, but it’s really cute. What is the perfect heel height?” Where people find peace, this girl finds frustration.
Except for this time. I am on the beach. I can feel the shallow water. I can see the waterfall. I am blocking out all thought. This chick is magic, think I. We get done and I’m pretty cocky. I went to the beach.
“How was that?” the leader asks.
“It was great. I’m not a beach girl. I prefer the mountains. So I went to my favorite place in the mountains. It’s on a hike in Colorado. You hike along this river and right after you’ve been deep in the woods you come to a waterfall. It’s in Pagosa Springs.”
My hand slams to my chest. Storyteller girl is confused. “I know where you are,” say I.
“I can’t believe you went there. Right where you are, that very spot, right where you are, is where my husband died.” Audible gasp. “I don’t know that I should blurt that out, but it seems so odd that you would say that in this room.”
Girl I’ve never met bursts into tears.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I say, getting up to hug her. She’s young. I’ve freaked her out. Mom instincts kick in. She falls against me.
I turn to my client–holistic, intuitive, seer and say, “Okay, doll, you wanna tell us what this means.”
“It means he’s here. He wants you to know he’s here.”
Collective chicks hands to pearls. Forward, ladies, always forward. As the big girls who don’t cry in public say, “Don’t look back, you’re not going that way.”
The Duchess Diaries 