But what happens when that cry bubbles up from inside of you? Do you give it a voice, or do you wait for it to become larger? One of my daughters was very dramatic as a child. Every bump, ache or pain was voiced with an agonizing cry. I can remember her balled up on her bed, holding her belly, yelling "it hurts, it hurts, it hurts!" My instinct was to soothe her, to shush her cries; if only to increase my own comfort with her pain. If I could go back in time, I'd spend less time soothing her and more time listening to her brave statements. Although she may, (as I tried to reason back then) , have been making the pain worse by getting herself worked up, she was also asking for help. The release she got from being unable or unwilling to hold back her cries may have even helped her to get past the pain sooner.
Our pain may not be life threatening. It may be the fleeting heartache blended with a lump of pride in our throats when we turn away from a child moved into a dorm room. It may be the echo of a long ago loss, that aches with a poignant memory. It might be the longing for a season passing, or the wish that we could bear a piece of a friend's grief. Perhaps it's the temporary rush of overwhelm that threatens to swallow us if we don't stop and take a breath.
So the question is, do we sit quietly alone with our discomfort, or do we call for help? We are not alone. Ever. We are surrounded by others who even in the midst of their own aches will gladly help to ease ours. Those of us who take comfort in a higher power know that even as we push off with our feet, waving our arms in gestures of wild independence, we are held in the arms of a love much greater than we can understand. Today, I breathe in the gentle words of a yogi friend who reminded me that there is no shame in asking for help. There is inspiration in both asking and granting. There is peace in the balance. If you are struggling, reach out a hand. If you witness someone struggling, take his hand. It really is that easy.