When is laughter not good?

For the most part, laughter is good, welcome, wonderful. Laughing is good for the body—it shakes up your internal organs. It’s good for the environment—a lone laugher can stir an entire busload of strangers into a guffawing fit. We can assume it’s good for the soul. Although, I suppose that could be argued who can prove it? So, when is laughter not good? It’s not good when one—okay, I confess, I’m talking about myself here—has a weird sense of humor (apparently.) 

I can’t crack a smile at slap stick humor. Practical jokes annoy me. I cringe at the videos of people or animals caught in acts where they barely escape something dangerous or painful. But, just let someone drop a sloppy, gooey, cheese-covered, full-on lettuce, tomato, onion Burger King hamburger in the middle of his lap, in the middle of the parking lot, in his new, spanking clean truck and I’m off. Fits of snorting, hooting, hand-covering-mouth, clutching stomach, rocking laughter.

 “Mom. It’s not funny.”

Snort, snort. “I know. But”—snort, hoot, wipe eyes—“it will be. Some day”—guffaw, snort, rock wildly holding stomach—“you’ll laugh about this.”  I wave a limp hand at the ketchup sprayed on the dashboard, pick up a wad of mushy lettuce and a glob of cheesy bun, slop it onto the limp, tattered, cardboard tray. There are two of us in the truck and it’s clear from the look on his scowling face, I’m the only one who is remotely amused.  He’s swiping at the slimy globs of goo with the one tissue-paper thin, gum-wrapper sized napkin so generously included with his burger. My napkin is beyond use from wiping my eyes. Hoot. Hoot. Snort. Rock wildly, kick feet. Hand fisted into my mouth to keep myself from laughing. Useless. Laughing so hard, I can’t get my breath. “I’m not laughing”—snort, hoot—"at you.”

“Mom.”

“I know. I know. It’s not funny.”  Snort, hoot. “But it will be.” Ha ha ha. “Some day. You’ll laugh about this.”

It’s been four years. I still laugh about it. I don’t dare ask if he thinks it’s funny, yet.

Some day …

Listen to the Whisper in Your Heart

Sometimes, it’s not helpful to hear “be positive” or “smile” or “there’s a silver lining in every cloud” when your world is crashing around you. Slapping a smile on your face doesn’t change the facts of mental, physical, or emotional wreckage that periodically erupts in life. So, what might help? Being realistic about what hurts, acknowledging “what is,” feeling the pain or disappointment, and then settling into the moment of “now” and allowing the peace in your heart to speak or sing. It might be a whisper, but trust that it’s there and wants to be heard.

Writing, a Silent Witness

Words Can Hurt

Words can hurt.

From a young age, I heard the adage ‘Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words can never hurt you’ and knew it was a lie. The sting of cruel, unkind, insulting, or angry words can last far longer than a slap, can wound for a lifetime, can linger, unforgotten and sometimes unforgiven. And a lie told about you?—don’t get me started how that can fester and harm forever—reputation and soul.

Yesterday, I was in a funk—feeling aggrieved, bitter, and sorry for myself for reasons I won’t go into. They’re not important for what I want to say. I felt closed in, cut off, misunderstood, half crazy, strangling with what I wanted to say: my words would have caused resentment, would undoubtedly been misunderstood, would have wounded and hurt. They needed to be said—to me.

In that miserable funk, I wrote a poem. I titled it “I Knew a Girl.” I pored out my heart in pathetic, whining, “poor me” poetry in (imperfect) iambic pentameter for two pages in Word. Writing it was cathartic. It allowed me to laugh, to reflect, to remember “that girl who used to sing”—"that girl with hope in her heart.”

My words hurt no one—and they won’t. I wrote it for me, no other, and it helped. I knew a girl and she is me—filled with hope for a better, more peaceful world.