Sorrow is so easy to express and yet so hard to tell.

Joni Mitchell, poetess of song and painter of the human soul, once said: “Sorrow is so easy to express and yet so hard to tell.” In these words she speaks of a paradox that has haunted humankind since the dawn of memory. For grief flows quickly through tears, through sighs, through the bowed head and trembling hand; yet when the heart seeks to explain its wound, the tongue falters, and the words are swallowed in silence. Thus sorrow becomes both the most visible of emotions and the most inexpressible of truths.

The ancients knew this struggle well. In Homer’s Iliad, Achilles weeps by the shore for Patroclus, his grief laid bare for all to see. The tears and cries are easy to express, thunderous and raw. Yet when Priam, the father of Hector, comes to beg for his son’s body, Achilles is struck mute. Words fail to carry the depth of their mutual sorrow, and they can only sit together, sharing grief beyond speech. Here is the essence of Mitchell’s insight: that sorrow, though it may pour forth in visible signs, resists the order of language, for it lives in a depth where words cannot descend.

Consider too the story of Abraham Lincoln, who, after the death of his son Willie, was often seen pacing the White House halls at night, face drawn, shoulders heavy. His grief was known by all who looked upon him, expressed in his countenance and demeanor. Yet in letters and speeches, he spoke of the loss with restraint, almost as though words could not carry the weight of his heart. His sorrow was plain, but to tell it fully — to make others feel what he felt — was impossible. Thus we learn again that sorrow can be seen but not wholly spoken.

Why is this so? Because sorrow is the child of the soul’s deepest attachments. It is born where love has taken root, and where loss has torn the root from the soil. Such a wound bleeds in gestures, in silence, in trembling; yet to translate it into language is to risk diminishing it. Words may explain facts, but they cannot capture the abyss of absence, the way a familiar voice gone forever echoes in memory. Hence the ease of expression, and the impossibility of telling.

Yet Mitchell’s words are not only lament, but also guidance. She teaches us to recognize the signs of sorrow in others, to attend to the sigh, the silence, the eyes that look away. For not all grief will be spoken, nor can it be. To demand explanation from the grieving is cruelty; to sit beside them in silence is compassion. Just as Priam and Achilles shared their grief without speech, so must we learn to be present for one another when words fail.

The lesson, then, is twofold. First, do not be ashamed if you cannot tell your sorrow; your silence is as true as your tears. Second, when you see sorrow in another, do not press them for speech, but honor their unspoken pain. Practical action follows: listen more than you speak, offer your presence more than your counsel, and allow silence to become the language of sympathy.

So, children of the future, take these words as wisdom. Sorrow will come to you, as it comes to all who live and love. You will express it easily, in tears and gestures that flow unbidden. But when you find it hard to tell, remember that you are not alone, for countless generations have faced the same silence. And in that silence lies a sacred truth: that sorrow is beyond words, and in its depth, it binds humanity together in the eternal fellowship of those who grieve, endure, and love still.