“Do you know a cure for me?””Why yes,” he said, “I know a cure for everything. Salt water.”

“Salt water?” I asked him.

“Yes,” he said, “in one way or the other. Sweat, or tears, or the salt sea.”

― Karen Blixen, Seven Gothic Tales

Tears come for many reasons: Sadness or loss; frustration; anger; fear; laughing really hard; caring deeply about something;  or an overflow of emotions. They well up when I see a touching commercial during the holidays or the Olympics about family, when animals get hurt in movies (that one always gets me), or when I come across a video on the internet of a baby overcoming a terrible obstacle.

For reasons serious or silly, something in our brain signals a flow of salt water to the eyes.

Not everyone cries as easily as I do.  In high school, my friends teased me about my ready tears, even joking that I should be called “Maud”–short for maudlin, a word from a vocabulary test in English class that means tearfully sentimental and weepy.

Tears are so often inconvenient and embarrassing. When tears come, I hurry to hide them, stop them and put on a reassuring face, not wanting others to see inside a private world I often don’t understand myself. I automatically turn away from the people around me, bowing my head to discreetly mop my eyes when I feel them brimming, not wanting to be so exposed.

Tears in public always bring concerned glances, and sometimes prompt strangers to ask about my well-being. They bring out compassion and concern even in people who don’t know me. The people who do know me see tears and respond with concern, too, creating a space to address and share  emotions–sadness, hurt, happiness or even something that struck me as so funny that the tears fall uncontrollably.

Tears often come when we don’t expect them, or fail to flow when it seems like they should. Some come only in private, when I am finally quiet and allow my emotions to catch up with my body and mind.

They are mysterious, even to me with all my crying experience.

In the Psalms, it says that God keeps all of my tears in a bottle. I love that image. Something as small and private as tears are given special care, as if they are a treasure. It tears are worth this special treatment, there is dignity in the emotional part of me that feels and responds to the pain and joy of life. I think of tears as brush-away, dab-away, makeup-wreaking streams of salt water, but paying attention to them and the reasons they flow elevates them beyond just a biological response–they are part of being and feeling human.

If tears are the cure, what is the ailment? The most obvious answer is injury that causes physical or emotional pain or loss. Tears, like sweat, help to heal wounds by flushing toxins caused by trauma and stress out of the body.

That is part of it, but I think the bigger problem is disconnection–from my own emotions and in my relationships. Life can become a soul-withering  grind of tasks unless I can find connection and meaning in what I experience. Tears, when I let them flow a little and I attend to what makes them well up, are signals from some deeper part of me about what is going on inside. They bring hidden things to light. These watery messengers and companions are valuable, and they are a gift when they show up.

They help us connect to our own inner world, each other and the world around us if we let them.