The importance of safe people

In describing how and why I bottled everything inside of me, I said to a friend, "I didn't have safe people in Iwate.  Rather, it took me forever to find them."
"What do you mean by 'safe'?" I was asked as I sat on the front porch taking in the street noises outside.
"'Safe' as in 'I can cry in front of them.'  'Safe' as in 'I can be myself around them,'" I replied.
"Okay.  That makes sense."  And then we both pause.  She goes her way in her mind, wondering what's coming for her as she prepares to make her way to Japan to volunteer.  I go my way in my mind, remembering back to how long it took me to find people to whom I could truly open up.

I am now surrounded by safety.  I'm home.  I sleep in my bed at night with my husband next to me.  All around me are familiar sights, smells, places, and people.  I can finally be myself again. 

As someone who is not accustomed to or very good at keeping opinions inside, I swallowed my words daily as I interpreted, feeling sandwiched between cultures and people who didn't understand the other.  Add to this the suppression of emotions I'm encountering from the scenery and stories, it's no wonder I was off my game, not myself and thus now plugged.

Before I left for Japan, I called in every favor I had to gather relief supplies to take along.  That was a 'want'--something I 'wanted' to do for others.  I now have a 'need'--I'm asking people to give me the luxury of tears, honesty and reflection.  The distinction between 'want' and 'need' is explicitly clear to me.  I'm being selfish and I claim it.  I put everyone else first for seven weeks.  I get to be a bit selfish for awhile.

The tears are coming.  As I recounted the lunch I had with a dear mentor on Monday and tea I had with a friend today, I told my husband how bit by bit, the words of others are helping me piece together what I couldn't articulate before.  Then came the tears.  My husband, being the safest person of all, sat there, leaning over my chair listening as I told him how I'm starting to experience clarity.  I inhale and hold.  More tears come.  I make myself exhale.

"I'm crying," I say as I look over to him.  He grins.
"Yes, you are."
"This is good," is the best I can come up with.
"Yes, it is," he says again grinning.
"What?"  I say with mock annoyance.
"Your lower lip is trembling," he tells me.
"It is?"  I reach up and touch my lip.  It is.
"It's cute," my husband tells me.  I roll my eyes.  He laughs.  I smile. 

I don't know if these tears are the mist before the downpour, if this is the crack in the dam that will eventually burst or if this is the beginning of my own personal rainy season.  I do know I'm surrounded by safe people and this is good.