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The Call to Laughter

The Call to Laughter

I’m working to re-train my brain there is no such thing as a bad year. Or a good year. It’s convention, this time thing. The idea we’ll peel a year or a month off the calendar. This year bad. Next year good. Rubbish.
My old way of thinking would suggest 2019 will be a shitty year as I wrestle with transitions, like the kind I endured while laboring before my two children were born. The life changes I’m embarking on would top anyone’s list of Most Stressful. I won’t elaborate right now, because I’m not ready. So, back to transition - I’m wrestling a few that remind me of that painful period before giving birth. The first time, I withstood an excruciating epidural minutes before emergency surgery (Fiona); the second time, I was drug-free while pushing a human - a baby with hand on head - from a small space (Finley). Both transitions required the ability to withstand temporary suffering and delivered a beautiful result.

This time, I’m not convinced of the beautiful result. Nor am I guaranteed one. No one is, whether in childbirth or the birth of a new self following paroxysms of weeping or long spells of anxiety.

So back to the good/bad years/months: if I listen to advice from wise people, I’ll realize we only have this moment. Ancient Chinese philosopher Lao Zhu said, “If you are depressed you are living in the past.  If you are anxious you are living in the future. If you are at peace you are living in the present.” (People with clinical depression aren’t necessarily living in the past; they have a serious medical illness which is treatable. This differs from sadness over something like loss of a loved one, which comes in waves and generally co-exists with maintaining self-esteem).

Where was I? This moment. I cherish the sweet, small moments which really, are all we have. Even in the midst of Sean’s four and-a-half month hospitalization, those moments existed, like Marcel Proust’s moment when he tastes a madeleine dipped in tea, unleashing a torrent of memories. My madeleine was an oatmeal cookie with just the right amount of butter, sugar and salt. The cookies were a homemade gift, soft and chewy. I made them last two weeks by eating one or two per day in the hospital waiting room around 10:30 am. As I bit into the soft, sugar-with-a-hint-of-salt oatey confection, I mused life couldn’t be all bad. Even while my husband lay unconscious, wired and tubed in the ICU, I could find pleasure in a baked good. I still love oatmeal cookies, though I’ve never replicated any as good as Gay’s.

And so it is with comedy shows. Especially in the midst of crisis, a funny stand-up program stirs muscle memories of laughter. Of smiling so much your face hurts. Everyone has their triggers; one of mine is Amy Schumer. Yes, she's crass, scatological - she’s not for everyone. But I’ll claim her as mine, because she makes me laugh so hard I cry.

I had just finished watching Brené Brown’s excellent The Call to Courage on Netflix when I spied Schumer’s Growing Pains. It was getting late, but it’s a long holiday weekend and I didn’t have to get the kids (or me) up early the next day. So I watched. And laughed so hard and so strangely, Fiona shot video of me on her phone. Watching me laugh makes me laugh - again. Fi said at first, she thought I was hurt. It sounds like chimpanzees have invaded the house.

Maybe instead of a Proustian moment, it’s a Schumer moment? It was a laughter moment. Proof happiness exists not in the past or future, but only right here, right now. The present of the present. I needed that.

What makes you laugh so hard you cry?

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