It was never intended for these pages to trickle into a diary. You know—”today I did this, yesterday I did that.” But it’s Spring. I’ve been through autumn and winter, and I realize that for six months I’ve been living a life I never saw coming. So, I find myself using these pages to write about a world that I would rather ignore because it helps me keep some semblance of sanity. The words I’ve written have felt, a little too often, dark even when the words themselves are bright.
But I wanna track back to the beginning, to the color, vision, and power of language. So in a hopscotch fashion, I have leaped around to land on: Strength.
Endurance, vigor, physical power, potency. How to define the ability to withstand and overcome the curve balls of life? I am not the only one with diary-producing issues. At least three people I know have lost parents; another had a serious operation; and yet, another has been trying to heal in the wake of separation from a 35-year-old marriage.
What, I ask my God, do you want us to learn? Could it be how to maintain equanimity under pressure? Perhaps it’s a subtle directive to keep our hearts open in spite of the ignoramuses we encounter (see?). Perhaps it’s as simple as a desire and need to find love within our courage.
I asked a minister if his faith was ever tested.
“Yes. Every day.”
“What do you do?”
No, I’m not a skeptic. I just want to hear what I know is the answer.
“Pray without ceasing.”
That’s all I wanted to hear.
I’ve been depending on the view from my window to help fill me up. In the morning, I watch the clouds gather. They are snuggled together like sheep, or like cotton balls with soft, tangerine colored edges. Some days they are scary in their weighted grayness. And some days, the sky has no clouds at all. I admit it: those are great days.
In the wee morning hours, say one ‘o clock, before clouds take visible form in the black-but-really-deep-blue sky, I watch the Moon through the same windows where the clouds will soon be. The Moon, in her guardianship of millenia of human genius and ignorance, is a tremendous comfort.
I willingly relinquish control to the sky, to the stars, to the deep blue infinity. In doing so, I somehow feel stronger. The time I spend trying to control what I cannot control is like fighting an undertow.
We cannot control the death of parents, and even though we try our best, we cannot control the destiny of our bodies. In spite of all the efforts we put into commitment, sometimes our partners will not be committed.
And so, I am taught to admit that great strength lies in surrender. There’s something zen about that, but I don’t really know what it is.
Yet.
Sala
On words that begin with L: Laughing. Loud. Love.
Laughing.
I watched my father eat: turkey, ham, selected pieces of fried chicken, greens, potato salad, cranberry sauce, homemade rolls. There were assorted pies, cakes, and desserts. We all ate like that. It was Thanksgiving. Sometimes Christmas. Sometimes Easter.
Like many Americans creating their versions of a Norman Rockwell painting, we gave thanks for our abundance before washing it down with lemonade (kids) or booze (grownups). Then Daddy rolled from his chair to the floor, landing on his hands and knees and crawling away from the table as children competed for a seat on the human horse.
In those moments, there were no concerns. Racism and segregation were far away from the plate. Family arguments stayed out of the soup. All earthly concerns were buried beneath an avalanche of laughter.
Loud.
Daddy would throw his head back and release a sound so all consuming—and loud—that everyone was affected. I have inherited his volume. There is no doubt that I am in the room when I laugh. Like his, mine is wall-to-wall laughter. It was infectious. Our knees buckled, our eyes watered, and we almost wet our pants. His laugh carried the good stuff.
Everyone says that laughter is the best medicine. That’s because laughter — real deep down jiggle your insides healing laughter — is synonymous with love. Right?
Love.
Exactly. Real laughter comes with love.
There are all kinds of laughter that have nothing to do with love. Or happiness. There’s the forced laughter we hear in business meetings when folks are pretending they want to know who you are, but mainly they want something from you. Then, there’s the dry, scratchy laughter of contempt. (Just think of childhood bullies.) You know these folks when you meet them; there is no mirth in their eyes; no “there” there.
Real laughter rides the wind like bird songs, cricket cries, or the whoosh of waves lapping against the side of a houseboat. Real laughter plays the soul like harp strings. Real laughter melts the heart like warm cherry pie melts ice cream.
Real laughter is passed along like family recipes. When you come from laughter, you give laughter. I hear my father’s laugh in my brothers, my sister, and my nieces (who never met their granddaddy). It’s a rich and sanity saving heritage.
Forget LOL. I think I’ll start signing messages LLOL. Love laughs out loud.
Like this:
→ Leave a comment
Posted in Commentary, Creative nonfiction, Creativity, Essays, Reflection