Lately I’ve been weepy. When my middle school student–after doing a ten-minute quick write–read aloud a story about her grandfather’s death, I became weepy.  When I watched THE WAR on PBS, every time they cued up the violins as they panned across a smudgy picture, I became weepy.  When I looked at my happy but frantic labrador retriever and thought about the tough little life she had before coming to us, I became weepy.

The thing is–I’m not a weeper.  I’ve sat dry-eyed amongst a sobbing audience during Schindler’s List, I’ve felt like stone as I tried to muster up a tear or two to fit in at  funerals.  It’s not that I’m unemotional, it just seems to take a bit longer for me to feel really moved to tears. But lately I’ve been surprised and –truthfully–somewhat amused when I get the slight shiver that comes before my eyes start to well up.  Is that really ME? Moi?  Feeling weepy?

One of the many benefits of making my way through my thirties is that I have suddenly gotten a clarity about who I am. I no longer look at myself through a lens of what I want to be or should be, but actually have found myself both discovering and accepting–well, me.  It’s seems like such an obvious and easy accomplishment, and I’ve had some minor success doing this throughout my life, but never has it come so naturally and so casually.  It’s really quite an amazing discovery, suddenly thinking about oneself and suddenly realizing, “Oh, so thaaat’s who I am.

So as I mulled over my newfound teariness, I wondered what was making me feel so sad.  And it hit me. I’m not quick to weep because I’m sad, but actually, well, I’m…happy.  In the past I’ve been so fearful and worried about life that I numb myself to keep from becoming overwhelmed. Like if I allow myself to weep a little, it may release a powerful and unstoppable flood of emotions that would drown me.   But now, my life is good.  It is full and rich and happy, so much so that I can stop and indulge in a weep over the small sorrows in life.