space for sadness

| February 11, 2014 | 8 Replies

Before I tell you about the gift I gave Laura, I should tell you about the gifts Laura gave me. A hug each time I passed in the hall. A raised hand for every question I asked in class. More songs than I can count: songs I taught her, songs she brought from home, songs she invented. Like her older sister Margaret, Laura was the personification of cleverness and exuberance: a pint-sized Hermione Granger.

Laura singing at a concert

One morning, as a special treat, we spent our entire class time playing music “games.” Watching the transcendent glee inspired by educationally valid activities warmed my smug teacherly heart. True to form, Laura danced and shone like a diamond on a chain. Well, until the end of class. In our final rounds of “Closet Key” she begged to be chosen to hide the key, but we ran out of time.

I could see the tears brimming Laura’s eyes as we sang our closing song and lined up at the door. I pulled her aside as the rest of the group filed back to class. I already knew why she was upset, but I asked anyway.

“I’ve never had a turn to hide the key!” she moaned.

“Never?” I asked dubiously. We’d played the game quite a few times before.

“Never,” she confirmed, dissolving into full-on tears.

I started scooping up a serving of perspective. “You might not have gotten to hide the key, but you sat in the center of the circle for Button You Must Wander. I try to give everyone a turn to do something special, but no one can do ALL the special things on the same day.”

My insights impacted Laura like a lit match impacts the ocean. I took a deep breath. I wanted to fix this situation: to convince Laura that her reaction was disproportionate to the problem, to send her out the door with tools that would quell such outbursts down the road. My efforts were failing.

I gave up. I patted her sobbing shoulder and sighed. “I understand why you feel sad, sweetie. I’m sorry it hurts.” She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed. As if by magic, she emerged from the hug wiping her cheeks. A glint of light had already returned to her eyes.

I watched her walk calmly out of my room. By the time she reached the stairs she’d resumed her customary canter. When she reached the upper landing it hit me: I’d just given Laura what I struggle to give myself.

I’ve spent decades lecturing myself on acceptable responses to upsetting situations. Right around Laura’s age, I began to discern that my sadness wasn’t welcome. Perhaps adults looked at me the way I looked at Laura. You’ve got it good, little girl. Don’t complain. Don’t cry. Here, I’ll scoop you up a serving of perspective.

But all Laura needed was space for her sadness. She didn’t need logic; she needed a hug. No matter how clever or exuberant a person may be, she still has a right to burst into tears. Indeed, a propensity for extravagant gladness often correlates with a propensity for unwieldy sadness.

We give certain graces to others before we dare give them to ourselves. In the midst of this challenging year, I often think of that moment with Laura. Perhaps the tears we reason away accumulate within us. Perhaps this is the year I let all mine out. Once the stormy season passes – whether it lasts a moment or many months – the light returns.

Laura shares at an assembly

special thanks to Margaret Mell & Doug Bowker for these photographs!

Category: beauty, journey, love, pain, singing, teaching

Hannah Lynn Mell

About the Author ()

Hannah Lynn Mell grew up a missionary kid in Kailua-Kona, Hawaii. Now she lives in Rowley, Massachusetts with her exquisitely kind husband David, their plucky three-legged cat Thomas, and a needy-yet-lovable dachshund named Birdie. She's worked with singers since 1998 and loves to help people of all ages free their voices.

Comments (8)

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  1. Catherine says:

    I love this because this is what you have done for me, too. You are an open-armed woman, Hannah.

  2. Nancy H says:

    “I understand why you feel sad, sweetie. I’m sorry it hurts.” I say your words to Laura, back to you, Hannah….I know lots of people who would like to give you a hug…I’m one…sending you a Spirit hug.

  3. Laura's Dad says:

    Thanks for sharing this. Sometimes, when I’m talking with my (high school) students about the goings-on in their lives and I can see the tears welling up, I’ll hand the student a tissue and say, “It looks like you’re about to cry. If you need to, it’s OK.” Every time this has happened, my students have been grateful for being allowed the space to be sad and to express all the feelings that go with it. They’re also grateful that I didn’t try to “make them feel better.” In fact, I think a large part of the problem is that we think “make them feel…” instead of “let them feel…” It’s the difference between “I value who you could be if you pull yourself together.” vs. “I value who you are right now.” To a child who’s feeling vulnerable, that difference is everything.

    I also enjoyed reading the story about Laura, and I think you nailed exactly what she needed–acknowledgement of her feelings of disappointment and a moment to process those feelings. That same scenario has played out at home on several occasions, and every time, the hug and the validation has been what she needed in order to be able to press her own “reset button”.

    Laura also enjoyed your post. She also says “hi,” and she wishes she could give you one of those hugs right now.

    • I sooooo wish I could have a Laura hug right now! I’d really like a hug exchange with each member of your precious family. With any luck, our paths will cross again soon. Thanks so much, Jeff.

  4. Doug Bowker says:

    A great story Hannah. It’s funny because I kept finding “reasons” for being too busy to read it. The real one was: “Hey, not interested in sadness, sounds like a downer.” Which is of course ridiculous since every one of your posts have been just the opposite! And of course so was this one as well.
    Thanks.

    PS: And my pleasure regarding the picture.

  5. Andrew says:

    A beautiful reminder of how to embody compassion. Thank you, dear one.

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