I dreamt someone asked me if (Merciful) Mother Mary were to grant me one wish, right there on the spot, that would help open my way to her, what would it be.
Me: “That I could [say] her name without crying.”
X: “Why?”
Me: “Because it devalues tears and turns them into nothing more than empty stage props. It’s like a bleeding statute of Jesus. The focus turns on the ‘why’ instead of what it represents. I don’t cry when I’m wounded. I throw expletives like grass seed. At first it was a kind of miracle that made it clear to me that this wasn’t a mere apparition. But now? It’s a parlor trick. It strips crying of its power and places that part of me under her dominion. Makes crying something only women do. And that won’t do.”
X: “I’ll see what I can do.”
It has taken me all day to realize I can write her name and dwell on her without feeling exposed, vulnerable, or weepy since that dream.
I do not regret my wish.