In my dream last night, I saw a teardrop turning into an owl. I can’t remember what kind of owl it was, but it had two huge eyes and something in my dream told me that it was an owl. At first, I thought it was odd because I haven’t had a good cry for a long while. I mean the kind of cry that cleanses you and frees you when a tight knot has lodged in your heart, and then releases you to move forward.

Most of my crying sessions in life have been due to my mother. It’s not because she was a horrible mother. Quite the contrary, I know she did everything in good faith and did her best to raise her children the best way she knew how. For my mother, to love means to sacrifice. By giving everything to her husband and her children she becomes who she considers to be a good wife and a good mother, to the point where she leaves nothing for herself or her life. She keeps on giving and that is her way of showing her limitless love for her children. I, on the other hand, wanted her love to be expressed as support and encouragement for me to grow and become the best one-of-a-kind Jung in the world.

Also, my mother (not unlike many other mothers in the world) wanted her children to be safe and protected. I am also a mother, and I share her motherly concerns. I, too, want S and J to be safe and protected. However, our common hope diverges when it comes to the meaning of “safety and protection.” My mother’s view has always been, and is, that the best way to be safe is to conform to society; she wanted me to “fit in” and be one of the many (not one-of-a kind). She hoped that I would succeed in ways that would be approved and admired by mainstream society and culture. Because she loves me, she hoped that I would have a “comfortable” life as she projected what such life would be for me. But her love was misguided; I wasn’t her. My mother seemed to have forgotten that I was a separate individual with my own unique strengths and gifts, dreams and thoughts, personalities and character, which were/are all very different from her own.

As a child, I learned how painful it was to be pressured to become someone else, and how hurtful it could be for a child to be frequently and relentlessly compared to other children and to have it pointed out that I was not extroverted enough, smart enough, talented enough (in art), as good in math as my boy cousin who was my age, etc. Being a sensitive child, I might have taken these criticisms rather harshly while other children could have let them roll off their backs. All the same, I recall making a vow to myself that I would not make my own children angry when I became a mother by making them feel that they are any less than others for any reason.

While reading Women Who Run With The Wolves, I noted certain passages about tears because, not only have I cried a good deal in my life, I also shed tears easily when I am moved (and I get moved often, even watching children’s movies with dialog or scenes that portray human tenderness). In one such passage, Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estés wrote:

”C.S. Lewis wrote about the bottle of child’s tears that heals any wound with just one drop. Tears, in mythos, melt the icy heart. In [the story] ‘The Stone Child,’ … a boy’s hot tears cause a cold stone to break open, releasing a protective spirit. In the tale ‘Mary Culhane,’ the demon who has seized Mary cannot enter any house where tears have been cried by a true heart; these the demon considers, ‘holy water.’ All through history, tears have done three works: called the spirits to one’s side, repelled those who would muffle and bind the simple soul, and healed the injuries of poor bargains made by humans.”

Additionally, the author’s note provides: “Tears are multi-purpose, they are for both protection and creation.”

I highlighted the following passage in the book to share with my daughter S. She is teased often at school for being a “cry baby” when she cannot contain her frustration and indignation against others’ unfair (mostly her teachers) or immature (mostly her classmates) conduct at school. Although Charles and I are continually working with S to channel her emotion into constructive responses (such as articulating her feelings and thoughts using her superb verbal skills), these words may help S validate her innate sense — that there is absolutely nothing wrong with the sensitivity rooted in her giant heart:

”I am amazed how little women cry nowadays, and then apologetically. I worry when shame or disuse begins to steal away such a natural function. … Crying is good, it is right. It does not cure the dilemma, but it enables the process to continue instead of collapsing.”

I wasn’t able to articular the power of crying or tears as clearly as the author (Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estés), but I never doubted the powerful healing force of my tears when I cried soulfully in solitude because the one person in the entire world by whom I wanted to be understood and accepted wasn’t seeing me or hearing me. However, I also know that my mother has had her share of crying bouts in her lifetime, and she probably has cried as much (if not more) because of me as I have cried because of her. If I felt misunderstood and unaccepted by her, I have no doubt that she felt equally misunderstood and heartbroken by me. It’s just the way relationships work (or don’t work), especially mother-daughter ties. I admit that I often wondered why the love between a mother and a daughter had to be so painful.

Although my mother didn’t know how to guide me when I needed her guidance, I always knew in my heart of hearts that she loved me no matter what. Our relationship has evolved over the years, and significantly more so after MyCrownShift. These days I often take the role of guiding my mother when she is concerned about my “security” and “safety.” Even as late as a few days ago, when she and I were discussing the events that unfolded at S and J’s school regarding the teasing, name-calling and bullying issue among the students, she said that their school is a microcosm of the world, and S and J need to adapt to the way it is in the world. No sooner had I agreed with her on the first point, but not the second, than she continued on and expressed her concerns that Charles and I are raising S and J “too unconventionally” (because our daughters have never been to McDonald’s or other fast food chains) and “too far from mainstream culture” (because we do not watch cable or broadcast TV channels). She was concerned that they are bound to face hardship when they need to “fit in” and “mix in” with other young people of their generation. She even expressed that S and J might not be able to find suitable soul mates because they have not been “acculturated” to blend in as one of the many.

I heard what my mother was saying to me: “Life will be difficult if you go against the mainstream, so you should go along with others and swim in the same direction even if it isn’t what you want because it is safer and easier to go with the crowd. Take the path of least resistance even if that isn’t your path. Fit in the box even if you have to cut off some extra length from yourself here and there, or stretch your short limbs if necessary.” I also know that she said this completely out of her love for her grand-daughters, albeit misguided love, and that it was relayed with good intention because she deeply cares for them.

Before I reclaimed my awareness and consciousness, I was often hurt by this kind of response from my mother. I had felt that I was not understood or appreciated by her. More than anything, I wanted (and needed) her to help me find my courage, voice, and ground, instead of undermining them; I wanted her to support me and encourage me even though my thoughts and dreams were not what she had hoped for me. Most of all, I wanted her to believe in me.

Now, I believe in myself, and my soul provides me with the guidance, support and encouragement I need. This shift has also granted me a huge side benefit: I don’t need my mother’s approval, acknowledgement or acceptance any longer. Moreover, I now have the compassion, understanding, and forgiveness I need to melt away age-old frustration and anger. Now, only the love from, and for, my mother settles in my heart even when we have divergent views and differing opinions. I’m living the wisdom expressed by Susan Jeffers when she wrote: “The less you need someone’s approval, the more you are able to love them.”

So, a teardrop, “holy water,” turning into an owl indeed appears symbolic after all. According to Ted Andrews, the author of Animal Speak: the Spiritual & Magical Powers of Creatures Great & Small, the owl’s keynote symbolism include: the mystery of magic, omens, silent wisdom, and vision:

”The owl is a symbol of the feminine, the moon, and the night. … It has been believed to have great healing powers … The owl is the bird of magic and darkness, of prophecy and wisdom. … To the ancient Greeks, the owl was associated with the goddess Athena, and it was a symbol of higher wisdom. To the early Christian Gnostics, it is associated with Lilith, the first wife of Adam who refused to be submissive to him. To the Pawnee, it was a symbol of protection.”

The owl’s acute vision and hearing must be the reason for its association with wisdom.

Perhaps the Dreammaker’s message to me last night was this: Healing tears are a precursor to clear seeing and hearing that lead to the higher wisdom and protection I need, as I invoke the mystery of magic, when I refuse to be submissive to conventional ways of being, but stand in my own handmade red shoes to sing, and dance to, my own heart’s song.