By Michael Tyler, EJS Poet-in-Residence
The title of my first book is Water For The Soul: A Father’s Hope for His Son. It began as a journal I was keeping, when I was being denied seeing my eldest son in the aftermath of a bitter divorce. My journal entries were not a log of my emotional distress, or my fatherly longings, or explanations for why I had only been allowed to see him for fifty-two hours in ten years. Instead, I decided to catalogue the life lessons I feared I would never be able to pass onto him, the insights I wanted him to have as character and judgment tenets to live by.
I made an entry in the journal, three days after my mother’s passing, expressing my regret that my son wouldn’t benefit from years of her love, care, wisdom and humor. In making that entry, two things occurred to me. One was that most of the lessons I was keepsaking for my son came from my mother. The second was an idea to convert the journal into a book and publish it, with the hope that one day he would discover it as an open love letter, from his father. It would also be an endowment from his grandmother.
The title of the book is one of the greatest lessons I ever got from my mother. When I was five, I had a large, white rabbit named Snowball. He died two weeks into summer break from school. I was devastated. It was my first experience with the death of a being that I had a relationship with. My brothers were also affected but not nearly to the extent that I felt saddened by the loss.
Three weeks later, my mother and father lost a friend from a car accident. My mother thought it might be helpful for my brothers and I to attend the funeral, to see a ceremony and ritual memorializing the loss of a loved one, to process our grief over Snowball’s death. I didn’t know the man who died, so while I sat in church, I distracted myself by looking around and observing the many mourners in attendance. I knew the event was somber, but I didn’t feel personally affected. As I looked around, I saw many people dressed in their Sunday best. They were tearful and consoling one another with hugs and pats on the back.
Later, at the repast, the mood shifted dramatically. The event was more like a family reunion. There was food, drink and lots of smiles and laughter, as people delighted in sharing anecdotes, gossip and updates about their jobs, their lives and their children.
Three months later, I was back in that same church, serving as a ring bearer in a wedding. While at the altar, I became nervous and turned around to look for my mother. It took some time to find her face. As I scanned the pews to locate her, I observed the same scene I saw at the funeral. In fact, most of the people at the funeral were also in attendance at the wedding. There they were again, dressed in their best attire, crying, patting and hugging. Afterwards, at the reception, I saw the same thing I observed at the repast, a reunion atmosphere with food, drink, smiles and laughter. I knew the reason and the sentiment for each occasion, the funeral and the wedding, were as opposite as two events could be. I was incredibly confused as to why I was seeing the exact same behaviors, from virtually the exact same people, at both events.
When we got to the hotel ballroom for the reception, I was supposed to have stayed with the bridal party for photos. But I was too preoccupied with my confusion and chose, instead, to go sit at a table in a corner and stare out of a window. My mother found me there, after spending several minutes searching for me. She noticed immediately that I was troubled and asked me what was wrong. I responded as only my five-year old mind could think to, by asking her a very straightforward question: “Why do people cry?”
Right away, my mother deduced that I was unnerved and baffled by seeing the same behaviors at the funeral and the wedding. She sat down at the table and directed me to look out the window, at a park that was visible from the ballroom. She then asked me to tell her the color of the grass. I said green. She nodded and next asked, “What happens to the grass if it turns brown?” I responded by saying that it dies. She asked, “Why does it die?” I told her because it doesn’t get water. “Yes, that’s right”, she said. “When the grass gets water, it’s green. It’s alive. When it doesn’t get water, it turns brown and dies. Now, look at the flowers and the birds and the squirrels. Right now, they’re alive but if they don’t get water, they will die, too. Do you understand?”
I nodded my head but was even more confused, because none of what she was saying seemed to have anything to do with explaining to me why people cry. Then she said this. “Everything that is alive needs water to stay alive. Without water, everything dies. Now, inside of you is something called a soul. It’s the reason you are alive. When your soul dies, you die. So, it’s very important that your soul gets watered every now and then. Tears are water for the soul. That is why we cry. We need to in order to stay alive. This is why we can cry when we are sad and when we are happy, because how we feel can be like a storm or a sprinkler. And whether it comes from clouds or garden hose, we need water for our souls. So, never be afraid or ashamed to cry because without tears, your soul will die and with tears, your soul will stay alive and so will you.”
My son was given my book by one of his teachers, when he graduated from grammar school. It brought him back to me. Now, we are what we should have always been for each other. I owe that to my mother (and that teacher).
Tears are water for the soul. I never learned that reading Aesop’s fables. Since my mother’s passing, my soul has been watered many times by memories of her. Every Mother’s Day, I welcome the rain.
Word count: 1086
The image used is the cover of a book about what is perhaps Aesop’s best known fable. It was illustrated by Jerry Pinkney, one of the greatest African American children’s book authors and illustrators who ever lived. I’d like to think that his mother gave him great lessons, too.