My mother used to read me this book entitled "It Looked Like Spilt Milk." And if you have kids or are a teacher or perhaps neither, I am quite sure you have at least recognize the royal blue cover with whimsical shapes of spilt milk on the front. Ironically, there is also a saying that somewhat echos this book that states you should "Never cry over spilt milk." In other words, turn that spilt milk into intricate shapes of ice cream cones and candles and birthday cake, but do not waste your tears and energy crying over the little things. 

I agree with this statement, or at least I have wrestled with it for a while, but after today, I can honestly say I think the quote should read: "Don't be afraid to cry over spilt milk." One of my students was having a hard day. And truthfully, though we all become disgruntled over one thing or another, the one thing I never become annoyed or frustrated over is crying. Because truthfully I used to be the same way as a kid. I was a perfectionist and certainly had some steep anxiety levels at times, and I just couldn't help myself. I cried when I was filled with emotion, frustrated on a test or just was plain having a bad day. I can remember two very distinct times in my schooling where I cried over spilt milk. The first time was in science class (and mind you I was in 8th grade at the time) For our science tests we were expected to use a protractor. At the time, I had a giant orange cast on my arm all the way up to my shoulder, and I remember breaking down and crying during the test. My thumb was sour, my fingers were the size of orange potatoes, and I could not get the protractor to go in the direction I needed. The milk had spilled a vicious color of neon orange. I was spent. Exhausted. Tears came quickly. My brother looked at me like I was crazy (poor soul.) The second time I cried was due to a small moment but was over one of my friends making State Orchestra and in the process of giving her the sheet cake I had  made, I cried. In fact, tears rolled down the frosting and imperfect roses I had made the night before. A soggy cake and petals of tears is what she received. I still regret that sogginess. 

Funny enough, I cry very few tears (maybe twice or three times a year) these days. And it is quite possible, I cried over so many gallons of milk as a child, there are simply no tears left to fill up another. Or perhaps when we are older we just have more control over our emotions and cry only when we feel it is absolutely necessary. 

One of my students and I had a really deep conversation today about her anxiety but also her disappointment in herself for "crying over spilt milk." And in so many words I told her that there is nothing wrong with crying over spilt milk. Sometimes that spill needs tears. Sometimes, I think we tell ourselves "well that is not worthy of our tears." Well I think in some sense, if you are hurt deeply be it a gallon of milk or maybe a drop, you are allowed to cry. It does not matter the size of the spill. If the tears come, the milk puddle is deserving of those tears. She began to sniffle and smile a little. But a lot came out in that thirty minute session with her. And I realized that on the outside it may just be spilt milk to you, but for some, that droplet left on the table can open up a gallon of milk lying on the surface of one's heart. 

However, there is magic in taking that milk and forming into any shape one chooses as simple as a heart to remember love or a star to remind one of their courage or perhaps even a balloon to allow our secrets and anxieties to sour above us rather than lying heavy on our hearts. We can't always control our tears or the circumstances around those tears, but we can shape the way in which we make our milk formations, our birthday cake or our owl or our pig. But in the process of writing this post I did some digging myself and found some intricate patterns in the actual childhood book that I wish to share. It could be I am overexaggerating the original purpose or it could just be that I am looking at this book with a renewed maturity and sense of whimsical magic. 

However, if one notices in the first couple of pages, it constantly talks about how "it could be a bird but it wasn't," "It could be a piece of cake, but it wasn't" and then on the last page the author states, "it could be spilt milk, but it wan't It was cloud." And I have to think to myself, on a simple level, she chose a cloud because you can look at a cloud as being different animals and shapes and dreams. Or, one could look at this as a realization that sometimes as people, we feel the need to back up our tears with intricate images and explanations and mystical creatures when in reality, the reason is as simple as a cloud. Simple. Our heart is in pain. Simple. We feel hurt. Simple. We feel our tears. 

Simple. It's okay to cry over spilt milk.