Growing up, my mother would use to warn me that I would eventually run out of tears. Her words were related to the frequency of the crying in which I engaged. My progenitor’s prediction did not come to pass—thank God—and here I am still letting the river in me run its course. This is not to say that the nature of my discomforts remains the same. No. It is no longer sweets or my wish to skip school what I cry for. Much less so than before, what I sense as distressful does not remain solely personal and becomes relational. And I would not imply that I have reached a degree of consciousness that supersedes the self-centered child in me. However, the crying I am doing is happening with, as opposed to for, and the emotions activating this present to me as a field where I can receive and offer company. To this end, Karla McLaren, an emotions and empathy expert, speaks of grief as a “…river that flows underneath all life.” She goes on to explain this metaphorical body of water as one that can cleanse us and renew us, as well as a “river of all souls.”[1] I see this image serving as an example of the realms that, while distinctively entered individually, have a collective counterpart. Hence, the pain that might arise in me at any given dawn is as mine as much as it is planetary. I am thus practicing into wading my way into that vast lake of sorrow, even if for brief intervals, as I also learn that no rescuer in sight will airlift me out of it when an emotional ache turns into an inconvenience. What does it mean to become aware of the ongoing and nonending crying of the multitude that comes in and out of these waters? There are no Kleenex available to daintily hand to each other—like an old-fashioned embroidered handkerchief— so tears are meant to be left unhindered to evaporate then condense, to eventually return to us from above as cool rain.
In “Crying With” as a form of Compassion, a father requests the intervention of a Zen master in helping his son get back on track with his reckless life. Upon the son’s visit to the aforementioned sage, it appears as if the authority had missed the opportunity to send him on the right path. Nevertheless, before the young man leaves, the master’s tears reach the visitor, physically. As he ties his shoes to depart, the salty drops serve to catalyze a major detour in his life. The crying in question seems to point to the master’s plunge into a shared experience of suffering, and through this action waves and currents intersect. Days after reading this Zen story, I dream of one of my cousins walking along an urban setting that acts as a third space between New York City and Santo Domingo, in the Caribbean. In the scene it is difficult to tell where one city ends and the other begins, and I understand that the dreamscape can be rather fuzzy. From a distance, I notice a child attacking my family member. I read my cousin’s intention as a practical one; to make it to the nearby subway station and into safety. I opt for distracting the person on her back, who is actually not a child, so she could free herself from the danger. As it usually happens when dreaming, the linearity of the plot can quickly shuffle, and next time I see the culprit, he is stationed on a second-floor balcony talking with me from above. Suddenly, his and my pain enter a dialogue, but there are no words. The language in use is one that cycles back and forth from heart-to-heart— unseen to the eye, that is, non-visible—looping from source to source. Our tears circulate from one of us to the other, pretty much like the air we breathe does. I realize that my mother’s saying did not go to include crying after falling asleep.
A piece by Spanish poet Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer, written toward the end of the XIX century, alludes to McLaren’s XXI century compelling depiction of grief as a river, and brings in conversation two unlikely masters: the Zen teacher in the story and the Salsa musician and social activist Willie Colón. The latter, born in the South Bronx of Puerto Rican/Nuyorican parents. Colón’s interpretation of Gitana, composed by José Ortega in 1984 includes stanzas from Bécquer’s Rima XXXVIII:
Sighs are air and go to air!
Tears are water and go to sea!
Tell me, woman, when love is forgotten
do you know where it goes?[2]
The destination of both words and tears are vital elements for our survival, air and water, which corroborates the relationality of crying. Moreover, the stanzas in question prompt me to revisit the concept of a field, that river of all souls of McLaren, and to acquaint myself with journeying to this place. In New York City it is not unusual to come across a crying person in the streets. It has happened to me more than I can remember: in the subway, on some stoop, and on a park bench. Resorting to the Zen master’s approach would not be appropriate in these circumstances. In the case of New York City, there are implied social rules regarding privacy, and still there is the urge to ask, “How I can be of help?” I have circumvented this by simply stating “I hope that you will be ok,” or, “I hope things get solved for you,” and I have had to leave it at that—in the unknown. My mother might have been correct, to some extent. It could well be that my Crying With takes a silent form, where the river flows inside and the tributary washes me into Bécquer’s and McLaren’s junction where all tears meet and where I/we must dive from time to time to be alone yet together during the pangs of life and the sorrows of our world.
[1]. “Grieve: The Deep River of the Soul,” Karla McLaren, accessed October 4, 2025, https://karlamclaren.com/grief-the-deep-river-of-the-soul/.
[2]. “Poems: Sighs are air and go to air... [Explanation in International Sign],” Biblioteca Virtual Miguel de Cervantes, accessed October 5, 2025, https://www.cervantesvirtual.com/portales/ver_la_poesia_en/709092_sighs/.
The Ocean Within ©2025 Nicolás Dumit Estévez Raful
