Tears Tell Our Stories ✨ Soothing Story

 Have you ever stopped to think about what a single drop of water has seen? From the heights of Everest and the depths of the ocean to a quiet morning brew, a sudden downpour, or the tears running down your cheek—water carries everything. 

In this episode, I wonder how we can stop missing the extraordinary hiding right in front of us, and why every emotion, every memory, and every drop of life is worth holding onto. 

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:04

Dear lovely human, if you don't know me, my name is Linz. I write letters about life. I'm a curious soul, and I spend my time wandering around this revolving rock we call home, wondering what makes a life well lived. You can listen to my letters anytime, anywhere, whether you're driving, walking the dog, hunkered down on the sofa or easing yourself into sleep after a long day. They're written to help you slow and put life down for a while. If you enjoy wandering with me today, there's an invitation to step a little closer in the description. Just for you. Before we begin, let's take a moment of space together. Begin by feeling into the parts of the body that are either connected with the ground or the surface beneath you. Allow the body to become heavier, as if it's supported. You don't need to hold yourself together right now.

SPEAKER_01 1:36

Take three breaths.

SPEAKER_00 1:43

And then whenever you're ready, a slow exhale.

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Deep breath in let it all go. Take your time. One final breath.

SPEAKER_00 2:09

Allow it to spill out of your body, letting another layer of tension go. There, we've arrived. Today I'm wondering how we have stopped looking at the ordinary things as extraordinary. How utterly, mind blowingly, devastatingly, joyfully, extraordinarily beautiful the ordinary can be if we just slow down long enough to hold it. It's astonishing how those pure moments of presence, of awareness hold everything and nothing at all. How we can hold eternity in the palm of our hand without even realizing all the mystery, the magic, and the fricking pain that we collectively carry as human beings is ever present, but we're too busy to notice. I was listening to an interview with the brilliant writer Alif Shiffarc. She was talking about water, and she talks about it in a way I've never considered before. Her words completely burst the dams of my heart. This seemingly obvious everyday thing suddenly felt like an undrowning, a gasp of breath, and oh my god, I'm alive moment. I heard the fact years ago that every glass of water we drink has already been through the human body umpteen times before it reaches our lips. I remember thinking ooh, that's gross, and giving it no further thought. But water isn't just something we pour down our throats, is it, lovely human? It's not just to shower in, wash the pots in, wash the cars in, or to make our brew with. It's a fluid cycle of life, a flow, a constant flow that moves from place to place with no grand plan and no need to know where its destination is. Ultimately, it has no destination. Imagine taking a single drop of water and holding it in the palm of your hand. Imagine looking at it. That very drop may well once have lived right beneath your own skin, part of the very cells and tissues forming the palm currently holding it. It's been as vast as the entire ocean, and as minute as a tiny speck of drizzle, as infinite as the universe, yet as finite as a thimbleful. It's rested on the peak of Mount Everest, embedded right down thirty-five thousand eight hundred and seventy-six feet below sea level in the marina trench, steam rising off sunbaked asphalt after a British summer downpour, a swirling morning mist over a silent lake, or just the quiet condensation trickling down a cold glass of beer in a pub garden. It's been everywhere and nowhere all at once. We talk about water under the bridge, don't we? As if the past just washes away and disappears. We tell people not to cry over spilt milk. We turn it into art too. Musicians have been staring into the depths of a single drop for centuries, helping us make sense of our internal storms. The tears of a clown overflow into crime a river and lie awake with tears on my pillow. We're told big girls don't cry, boys don't cry. There's freedom in no woman, no cry and to try to stop crying your heart out, trusting that the tears dry on their own and left with the tracks of our tears. When you look at it like this, every drop we've ever carried, every shed tells the story of who we are. It's been the tears cried in the delivery room of my birth by my mum, my dad, and that life affirming scream from me. It was my hungry tears when I had no words for hunger, the tears of frustration mastering my first steps, the tears on my first day of school, clinging to mum and not wanting her to leave, and then five hours later not wanting to leave my new best friends, the tears from changing schools, moving villages, winning the sports day relay race, arguments with friends and then making up, losing my first love, and my second and my third, because subtle drama was always my speciality. The tears caught in my throat as I held my own breath, waiting for my firstborn to breathe and scream, and then the second, celebrating every milestone they hit, quietly weeping every moment they drove me utterly insane, the guilt tears from getting motherhood wrong, and them realizing I didn't do so bad, the shame tears from half-read bedtime stories when I rushed. All I needed was a glass of wine after a hard day, and the content tears of watching their little eyes close as they start to dream the evening away, because reading that story, my voice, made them feel safe enough to fall asleep, the heavy tears at Nan's funeral, and then Grandad's, the heartbreak for my dear friend who took her own life, and for the stories of the heroes who gave theirs for us, the film tears, the gig tears, the theatre tears, the arms wrapped around each other at closing time singing brown eyed girl tears, the holding back laughing tears when somebody trips over, and the glorious brilliant tears when I laughed so hard I cried, and then cried so hard I laughed all over again, the tears when mum told me she had cancer, the tears when she was given the all clear, the tears when it came back, and the tears when she died, and those unexpected tears after that, when the grief still catches me off guard even nine years on the tears from losing Sam and Bella, my two old dogs, the tears from watching my now two dogs, mister and Missy, tear around the living room chasing each other's tails as they have their mad half hour, the tears when I suddenly realise I can't keep them forever, comforted by the tears of knowing that I have them for now, even if forever isn't on the table. The tears at my wedding, the tender, quiet moments of connection, knowing it was a forever kind of love, the tears the night they left, and the tears of relief holding the divorce papers in my hands, the tears for others when loved ones finally find happiness, being truly happy for them, and the aching tears when you walk away realizing that you're not so happy. They cry those same tears in the same way for us and them too. That tiny drop of water has been all of my tears, all of yours, all of everyone's. We don't own it, it holds no judgment, it goes wherever it's called without a shred of resistance, just of service, always of service, there to celebrate our highest of highs, soothe our lowest of lows, and wash our pots. Have you ever stopped to think about this lovely human that a simple drop of water in the palm of your hand holds stories of every living thing, everything that lived before us and everything that will live following us? How utterly mind blowingly, devastatingly, joyfully, astonishing thee, and extraordinarily beautiful the ordinary can be if we just slow down long enough to hold it. Until next week, lovely human yours with love Lens Ps Thank you for spending the time with me. If a friend came to mind while you were listening, please do share this episode with them. It really helps more humans feel connected. If you'd like to step a little closer into my world and receive my soul hugging letters, the link to join our community is right there in the description.