In Pursuit of Laughter

“At the height of laughter, the universe is flung into a kaleidoscope of new possibilities.”

Jean Houston

I haven’t laughed in a long time.

Oh sure, I’ve smiled, I’ve giggled, I’ve even proffered a guffaw or two but I haven’t had a good, uncontrollable, tear inducing laugh for months.

I remember the last one I had. I was sitting in the front passenger seat of someone’s vehicle (I think it was my sister’s) and we were parked in the parking lot of my condo because she had just driven me home. I can’t remember where we were coming from, I can’t even remember what we were laughing about

but it was a good one.

A laugh where I had to take a second breath and then a third one to finish it.

Uncontrollable delight.

Why is it giddy, silly laughter comes so easily when we’re little and then seems to dissipate as we age? I don’t think it has anything to do with acquiring sadness or cynicism. I think we become too preoccupied to recognize humour. We don’t seem to give ourselves time to laugh and when we do we keep it close to ourselves,

a quite rumbling in the chest, instead of an eruption of joy.

So, it will be my mission for the next little while to expose myself to as much whimsy, humour, absurdity and wit as I possibly can. Monty Python, CBC’s “The Debaters”, pictures of my sisters and I during junior high…

And I am looking for suggestions. What makes you really, REALLY laugh? What makes you gasp for breath because of it’s hilarity?

Please share.

The Aspiring Epicurean

I really shouldn’t watch “Iron Chef”.

I get all sorts of grandiose ideas for cooking when I watch the culinary prowess of Mario Batali or Bobby Flay.

And what wouldn’t I give to sit on the panel and sample their fare?

Anyway, after watching an episode or two I start to believe that I too can be an Iron Chef. Not that I have the confidence to actually invite someone over for dinner and eat what I’ve created.

No, I’m too insecure for that and would much rather use myself as the lone guinea pig.

Besides, it’s probably “gastrically” safer this way.

The problem is I’m only half inspired. I watch the cooking shows, I buy “Fine Dining Magazine”, I even go as far as buying the ingredients

but,

often I resort to eating the fancy cheese, intended for a lasagna, melted on a cracker.

Or the red pepper bought for grilling and mixing in pasta is merely chopped and put in a basic salad.

And today, I admit to the most shameful example of my failure to follow through on creating a culinary feast. I have the plumpest, freshest asparagus stalks sitting in the crisper of my refrigerator. Throughout the entire day I dreamed of making fresh spaghetti with asparagus, pancetta bacon, Parmesan, olive oil and lemon.

As my students worked quietly at their desk I visualized how I would fry the bacon and stir in the steamed asparagus pieces. I’d cook the fresh pasta until it was perfectly el dente then toss lightly with olive oil and lemon juice . Then I’d gently grate the Parmesan cheese exquisitely on top.

At the end of the day I drove directly to the grocery story to buy the ingredients to complete my culinary masterpiece

salivating all the while.

After I purchased my treasures, I hurried home, dodging slow traffic, cutting through back alleys,

to start my delectable supper

and

promptly sat down and ate a can of smoked oysters and crackers as soon as arrived home.

It seemed, as I carried my grocery bags out of my vehicle,

across the parkade

and up the three flights of stairs to my condo,

I could feel the weariness of the day settle on my body

with each plodding step I took.

When I got home all I wanted to eat

was something simple.

So, the groceries for my pasta dinner sit in my refrigerator. Waiting.

I’m sure I will put them to good use eventually although maybe not in the manner in which they were originally intended.

But, there is always hope.

As I type this Mario is on the television dazzling me with ingenious ways to prepare fresh tuna.

Which makes me wonder, does Save On sell fresh tuna steaks?

Death and Pink Elephants

When it rains it pours.

Some months it seems as though we’re surrounded by sickness and death. We know of someone, or someone we know knows of someone, who has been diagnosed with a terminal disease or has died. And we murmur to ourselves or to those nearby “how sad”, “he was so young”. And we’re thrown off for the rest of the day,

or the week,

or the month.

Why is death such a distraction? When we’re reminded of our own mortality it’s like everything else is sucked from the room

except for one big clichéd pink elephant.

Those in the room fighting the urge to panic and leave.

For some adults, death means deliberately not forging relationships as a defense against suffering the heartache of losing someone they love and then being faced with the dilemma of having to replace what they’ve lost with someone else,

or will it be something else? Not necessarily replacing the person- but filling the void.

The empty space.

But what if that space has never been filled? What will fit? Who will fit?

What exactly elicits our fear of death? What are most of us afraid of? The unknown? The end of “it” all. The loneliness of it all? Maybe it’s because dying is the loneliest action we can experience- a journey we take completely and utterly alone? Frightening, perhaps.

The curtain opens. To be the one who opens that view between this world and the next. What kind of job would that be

greeter of the afterlife. Would you have to wear a mandatory blue vest complete with yellow button “Hello! My name is _________”. What would you do if people refused to enter or move from one world to the next? And they were bigger than you and brawnier and tougher and could throw out the f-bombs like blows to the head.

But what if we view death as a child? Unable to comprehend inexistence in the abstract. Maybe we wouldn’t be as frightened?

Innocence rather than ignorance being bliss. Or in my experience, a childlike understanding of death being comforting in it’s simplicity. Years ago my niece, who was then just three years old, answered the question “what happens when you die?” with words profound and certain and steeped in a truth that is as clearer than crystal:

“Your mommy comes and gets you.”

Of course she does.

And if we remember this, we are distracted no longer by the vulgar pink elephant that may be in the room.

Encore: The Improbable Prosibility of Owning a Pet

I went over to my friend Chriss’s house today. She has two big dogs. One is a regal Golden Retriever with soulful eyes, the other a perky, curly Golden Doodle. The Golden Retriever laid at my feet. It felt comforting and familiar to be “watched over”.

I want a pet.

I know better though, I’ve just begun to trust myself with houseplants. I have the idiot proof kind. They droop, I pour water on them, they perk up.

It’s probably a good thing I don’t have children.

Anyway, we had all sorts of pets when I was growing up. One summer that is particularly memorable is the summer our dog Lady had puppies. Booyon and Benji. Mom said she didn’t see us for the entire summer because we were always outside playing with the puppies. We only came into the house during the day to pee.

My sisters and I LOVED those puppies. We’d run around the yard pulling what was once the pea green “sick “ blanket and the puppies would chase it. They’d run and tumble and were plainly and simply adorable.

We’d stick them in our doll carriages and I once even tried to fit Booyon into the Barbie Beach Mobile. They’d comply without complaint.

We’d wrap them in blankets and pretend they were babies. They’d run around our feet and bite and pull on our pant legs. Only once did we discipline those puppies, and that was only due to my carelessness. I regrettably left Barbie and Ken outside when I came in for supper. At one point I glanced out the dining room window, fork suspended in the air between the plate and my mouth, and watched Benji run by with Ken’s legs stiffly protruding out of his mouth. I dropped the fork and rescued Ken, but not before his plastic head had been punctured by pointy puppy teeth.

Along with the puppies we also had cats. One old mother cat, dutifully called “Mother Cat”, reliably proffered a litter of kittens every summer for us to play with. Dad would reach his arm into a hole in stack of straw bales and magically pull out a kitten for each of us to hold and cuddle. When Mother Cat started meowing Dad would then gently return each kitten back into its cradle of straw.

We had a number of cats on the farm. After Mother Cat came Beatrice and Vern. Beatrice was a dainty pretty grey cat who would catch mice and proudly leave them on the front door step. Oftentimes she’d catch a mouse, find Dad working in the yard, and deliver the mouse to him to snack on if need be. Vern, on the other hand, wasn’t right in the head. He was white with grey spots and a little grey “Hitler ‘stash”. And was as BIG and fat. For some reason he always ran into the rubber boots stacked neatly in the garage. He’d also always fall off window ledges for no apparent reason.

Dogs and cats and at one point during my childhood we even tried keeping fish. Mom and Dad bought an electric fish tank and two fish and placed the whole contraption outside my bedroom door. It all seemed interesting and exotic until I realized the noise the filter and pump system made a noise that seemed twice as loud at night than during the day. That was the year I learned to sleep with my pillow over my head and did so until my little cousin came over for a visit, turned up the tank temperature, and literally fried the fish. Needless to say no tears were shed.

We never did replace them.

After writing this I realize that I don’t necessarily want a pet per se. What I DO I want is the go back during those summers when these animals were a part of childhood innocence. A time of sunburn, skinned knees, dirty fingernails and the undivided and unconditional attention of another living entity. A time when there was no list of things to do other than to wake up, down a glass of milk, and go out in the sunshine to play with the puppies.

Repost: The Potability of Prose

“Water water everywhere and not a drop to drink” – Coleridge

Such has been my life lately with regards to literature. I’m surrounded by all these amazing books, novels, essay anthologies, and biographies I’ve purchased and there they’ve sat on my bookshelf, piled on my floor, on my bedside table. Waiting to be consumed. Thankfully good stories don’t have an expiry date, and REALLY good stories only get better upon repetitive consummation.

But now, finally, the fog seems to be lifting. The literary waters seem potable. I’m finally able to “get” into a novel. And with this, a sense that what has been a tough year is finally resolving itself and “things”, whatever they may be, are going to start afresh. It’s funny how one incident, a matter of seconds really, can affect a person for months and months and months….

In November I was in a car accident and it has felt as though life has been unraveling ever since. Until this weekend. I think it’s quite timely that this was also Easter weekend. A time of rebirth and renewal.

Anyway, this weekend I ran away from home for thirty – one hours. My sister and I boarded a plane at the wee hours of the morning, flew to another city and shopped and drank martini’s and shopped and drank wine and ate good food and shopped. It was time set aside for decadence, and splurging and really good sisterly conversation. And, on my return flight home, I settled into my book. Purely escapist fare about murder and conspiracy and angels.

And I read.

Then I read again some more last night.

Then I read again this morning and more this afternoon.

And the book calls to me instead of taunts.

Now for some this may seem like no big deal, but for a über book geek like me NOT being able to really READ all these months has at times been anywhere between mildly frustrating to downright torturous. It wouldn’t be at all melodramatic for me to say that I had been living like a musician living in a world devoid of music,

and during that entire time I was simply sad.

I think the action of getting away, transplanting myself somewhere new, even if it was for less than forty-eight hours, and being with my sister who required nothing from me except that I be myself, had something to do with this change.

Now excuse me as I return to New York and the convent of St. Rose where Sister Evangeline is receiving vital historical information regarding the discoveries in the “Rhodopes” regarding the “Nephilim”.

I’m reading is “Angelology” by Danielle Turssoni.

Encore: Creamy Chocolate Fudge Cake

You know what I like about Friday evenings? Not that it’s a time of partying or dancing or late night carousing,

which it very well could but doesn’t have to be.

No. I like the fact the entire weekend is sitting before me. Time filled with potential. Like an entire chocolate fudge cake just removed from the oven and sitting on the kitchen counter cooling. Waiting to be covered in creamy buttermilk icing.

Anticipating the first forkful then devouring the entire thing.

This evening the cake is still sitting on the counter. It’s early Friday evening and I’m in my flannel pajamas curled up in bed

knowing,

with blessed relief,

that I have the ENTIRE weekend before me.

The pieces of my weekend vary from week to week. Sometimes one piece will be to sleep in as long as my body (and mind) will let me, my mission being to stockpile as much REM as possible. It’s decadently delightful to wake up when the sun is already up!

Sometimes my second piece of weekend cake is to get my house “in order”

literally.

Cleaning bathrooms, washing floors and doing laundry. Always with good intentions but oftentimes never accomplished. I may have to just pick away at this piece throughout the week. I wish I enjoyed the taste of this piece more than I do, but is usually find it

bitter

and dry

and more boring than not.

A third piece, of course, is to visit and coffee and partake in joyous libations with friends. A standing morning coffee with parents, a jaunt to the farmers market. Lunch or supper with friends. Strengthening the bonds of friendship

with the investment of time.

Often a piece will include work. Sad but true. It’s this piece that makes me feel guilty if I don’t partake. I’ll have to accomplish a bit of marking and planning just to settle any work anxiety that may surface

and niggle

at any attempt at an entire weekend of vegetation.

And, sometimes, if a final piece remains it will be one of complete indulgence. A massage, a pedicure, an afternoon of window shopping, looking for nothing and everything in particular. Or maybe even a couple or three or (shall I dare say it) four hours of reading…FICTION!

But for now,

at this very minute,

the cake sits in its entirety on my kitchen counter. An entire weekend waiting for me to cut into it and devour it at will.

But for now,

just knowing it exists

makes me simply happy.

Encore: Because I Feel THAT Sorry for Myself

You know how when you were a kid and Mom used to let you stay home from school if you were feeling sick and for the most part, aside from the puking or sinus congestion, you enjoyed the day?

In our house a “sick bed” was made up on the couch (ours consisted of a pea green blanket tucked into the couch cushions and a pink and beige rose coloured quilt) and two or three pillows and the stuffed toy you slept with…in my case my “Raggy” or my “Booyon”.

Sometimes both.

And there was the conveniently located blue mop or “puke pail”.

My father would come in from the yard every hour to check my temperature and to fill up my juice glass. I’d lay back and read comic books or watch whatever was on “farm TV”. Life seemed good even with a fever of 102.

When you’re an adult, staying home from school isn’t quite as fun.

When I get sick I can usually muster up enough antibodies to recover after a day home and then get back to work.

But not this week.

No.

This week I’ve had to wallow around in my misery for pretty much the entire week. What seemed a simple head cold turned into a chest cold (complete with hives) culminating in an intestinal flu.

And my sick-bed has been more of bane than a comfort.

I have no time for this viral nonsense. I’m finding my impatience more difficult to deal with than the phlegm. Being sick for more than a day makes me feel rather sorry for myself,

after all there is no one around to fill my juice glass.

This self-pity, compounded with an increasing feeling of guilt for having to lie in bed all day instead of cleaning or laundry or school work, makes for an experience that boarders on torturous.

Now don’t get me wrong, when I’m in the throes of putridity I don’t want anyone around to see how ugly it can be, but when I realize I haven’t seen another human being for pretty much a week I begin to feel somewhat isolated. And if you are borderline OCD this can be a bad thing

because now I have a lot of time and a limited amount of distraction to propel me towards believing I have all sorts of life threatening maladies.

Thank God for social networking sites where interaction can happen.  I can get sympathy from friends and family without the threat of contamination. Voices of reason, albeit digital, offer up “awws” and “hugs” and “don’t be silly it can’t be the plague.”

No, being sick when you’re an adult isn’t fun. When you’re a kid you feel kinda special being at home, the center of attention, front row seating for the television, being waited on hand and foot.

But as an adult you feel as though your front row seat is now for a culling a comin’.

Encore: A Sacred Space

“Your sacred space is where you can find yourself again and again.” Joseph Campbell

When I first hear “sacred space” I automatically think or a church or chapel.

A place that an institution or a select group of people have deemed “blessed”. Where one must genuflect and speak in hushed tones

if to speak at all.

Or a graveyard, mausoleum or battle field, a place or rest for some, a place of remembrance for others.

But look in any dictionary and you’ll find one of the definitions of “sacred” is

“dedicated to somebody”.

Virginia Woolf had another name for a sacred space she called it “a room of one’s own” (complete with lock and key) a place where she could write. A simple room that exists for no one else but you. Four walls dedicated to solitude and contemplation and independence.

A space does, in a way, become sacred when visited on a regular basis. A place of safety and routine.

Every teacher should consider her classroom sacred. It’s a place where students “find themselves again and again” so I am obliged to make it as safe and welcoming and enlightening. The classroom should be a place where people regard themselves, the acquisition of knowledge, and creativity with respect…

or at least make an attempt. (Believe me I know this is difficult some days near the end of the year with a raggle taggle brood of ninth graders).

Other spaces that emit a sense of obvious sacredness are any places that possess lakes, or rivers, mountains or prairies.

Parks, mountain ranges, prairies,

vast spaces of wilderness.

All sacred.

But the most important place that should possess a sense of sacredness is the place you call home.

That safe place where you are not judged

or threatened

or uneasy.

Some place that is familiar and welcoming.

A place where you can finally let go of that breath you’ve been holding

and the muscles you’ve been clenching.

Can you imagine not having a “home” to return to again and again? That place of migration where you pause and collect yourself

and remember how strong you are

and how blessed your life.

Encore: When Life Gives You Bug Guts

There is a smudge on my windshield.

It’s perfectly placed so that my eyes try to focus on it and I have to move my head a smidge to the right in order to move it out of my direct vision.

It’s small, maybe half a centimetre.

I’m thinking it’s probably the leftovers from a “head on” mishap with a bug.

Or, it could be a teeny rock chip.

Whatever it is it’s driving me nuts.

Why don’t I clean it off you ask? I keep meaning to but I always notice while I’m driving and then promptly forget when I arrive at my destination.

I don’t notice it all the time, but when I do it annoys me as much as any mosquito bite, or wedgie for that matter.

And then I just get angry.

Why is it that we let little things ruin our moment? Insignificant actions or behaviours that make us roll our eyes, sigh profusely or swear under our breath. And we don’t really do anything about them except let them get under our skin

and have them itch and fester.

When you think about it’s often the little things that get us riled,

little realities that most often are beyond our power to change. Such things as unreturned calls or text messages, getting cut off in traffic, broken air conditioners,

all little smudges really.

All we have to do is look beyond the immediate inconvenience to the road beyond to what is really important.

But at this particular moment I will go down with some windshield wiper cleaner and take care of the bug guts that plague me so that tomorrow I will have nothing but a clear road ahead.

Encore: Homage to a Hermit Hole

Sometimes I fall into a deep dark “leave me alone” hermit hole.

Where all I want to do is curl up

in the softness of my bed

And be.

Alone and away from the requisites of the day.

It would be quiet

and calm

and headache free

And I could aimlessly roam in my imagination

Like I did when I was a child

Where I’d make up stories And save the day.

But saving the day is more difficult

Outside of the hermit hole,

Where subjective interpretations and misperceptions

Make the truth murky

And processing the goings on of the day is exhausting business

And often result in mistaken conclusions

Making me want to escape and cushion

Myself in quilt-y quietness