Laughter through tears

"Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion." ~ Dolly Parton as Truvy, in "Steel Magnolias".


There's an absolutely wonderful short film by European filmmaker Christine Rabette entitled "Merci". In this exceptional 8 minute movie, not a word is spoken. Emotions, however, are conveyed with powerful imagery. The scene opens with an underground rail system and moves into a Metro car. The riders are nearly colorless...bland, beige, drab and downtrodden. Every face has a frown upon it. Every eye is downcast. It's a gloomy, depressing scene. The viewer feels the degradation, the monotony and the bleakness of the lives of the riders.


At the next Metro stop a smiling, robust, jolly man steps onto the train. Despite his grin, no one meets his gaze. He begins to chuckle, at first. Then guffaws. The train riders look aghast initially, or even disgusted. Yet, his laughter is infectious. Before long, the woman next to him is laughing along with him. The serious, stern riders further away begin to smile to themselves. Within an instant they, too, are giggling. A moment passes and the entire train is filled with optimistic, joyful mirth. As the Metro pulls into another stop, The Laughing Bodhisattva departs. But he leaves behind a much happier car.


For the past few weeks, I've felt quite a bit like the discouraged riders on that subway. One situation after another has left me depleted. Once again, I'm unwell. Although we don't have a diagnosis yet, I'm in nearly constant severe pain and am suffering from other ailments. It's been extremely difficult to get a doctor to return  my calls. In the hospital, it was nearly impossible to find anyone to even really listen to me. They were simply too busy to meet my gaze. In a sense, those health care professionals were riding on this same sad Metro car along with me. Additionally, my husband just lost his job. More than that, he lost his career, due to downsizing. He's a well educated, hard working man and has always been employed. This blow has also been extremely demoralizing...not to mention that it's terrifying in this economy. My heart has been so heavy, it's been close to breaking for good.


Yet, I had my own personal Bodhisattva appear, in canine form, this morning. My dog, Dakota, is a rescue. She's a beautiful Shiloh Shepherd. She came to us with many fears and has slowly been emerging from her personal troubled subway ride. As Dakota has gained in confidence, a mischievous sprite has taken form. I woke up to find her snuggling with me in bed. This isn't surprising. Dakota is very cuddly. What was unexpected, at any rate, was that my entire bed was covered in toilet paper. Not only was Dakota wrapped up like a mummy, but my other dog, Murphy (a Newfoundland-Golden Retriever mix) also was quietly bearing the binds of his wrappings. My lamps were covered. My robe, next to the bed, was covered. Somehow, my Kindle was completely wrapped up in its own package, as was the remote control to the television. There was toilet paper from headboard to the end of my bed, draping us all in a cocoon. It was as if I woke up in a canopy bed made of toilet paper. Miraculously, none of it was really broken. It was all looping, long, entire rolls. And, I'd slept through the entire construction. My crimson and gold bedding was lost in a sea of white. Seeing through the curtains of toilet paper, I saw two beautiful, mirthful eyes. Dakota had been waiting for me to wake up.


Although Dakota couldn't begin laughing herself, I knew that this was her gift to me. Her sprightly, goofy antics were the medicine I needed. I laughed. And laughed. And laughed. Dakota got up and rollicked around with the now destroyed toilet paper castle. She jumped. She whirled. She nearly pulled me out of bed with her merry shenanigans. I loved every second.


Are our problems solved? No. Do we have any answers to the fearful question we face? Also, no. But Dakota gave me a precious treat: the ability to look at the present moment with joy in my heart. When you think about it, isn't that what we all need?  Life isn't about the long term; it's about loving each day as if comes, finding the bright spots and steering your course towards them. It's also about laughter through tears. If we can't laugh during our times of trial, then we won't see the miracles that are right in front of us...even if those miracles are created by a dog with a penchant for toilet paper.

Lost

"Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves." - Henry David Thoreau

Not long ago, I wrote a piece about my favorite college professor, Dr. Lichtenstein. In "Lessons in Writing and Living" , I explored my memories of an extraordinary teacher, who had a profound effect on my life. Alice Lichtenstein taught me to be the writer I hope I'm still growing into becoming. Additionally, she inspired me with life lessons, to continually look forward while remaining grounded in the present moment, and to always listen to my voice, as a woman and as a writer. Serendipity has had an amazing role in my life this past week. Not only was I able to rediscover Dr. Lichtenstein through her newest novel, but as I read it, I found that I heard her voice speaking to me just as clearly as she had in the classroom at both Wheaton College and Boston University. It's not often that a writer can achieve a highly complex, fascinating and profoundly moving work. It's even more complicated to remain true to one's inner voice, one's philosophy and one's belief system while writing fiction. Dr. Lichtenstein has done just that with "Lost: A Novel".

The novel's plot is the search for a college professor's elderly husband, who wandered off, lost in his dementia. Hindering the search is inclement upstate New York winter weather, and being surrounding by heavily wooded areas. Masterfully interwoven with the search process, the protagonist, Dr. Susan Hunsinger, are the lives the search and rescue coordinator, Jeff Herdman, as well as Corey, a troubled preteen boy whose path crosses the lives of Susan, her husband, Christopher and Jeff. The narrative is intense, the prose brave. What begins as the search for the lost Christopher Hunsinger translates to a much larger picture; each one of the characters is lost, but the elder Hunsinger's journey is the literal one that can be measured, documented and resolved. For the rest of the characters, not only the main ones, but each one dancing on the periphery of the story, must find his, or her, own path in the world. As the novel reaches its bitter, poignant and palpable conclusion, the reader is left learning how lost each of the characters truly has been. Each one may not have been navigating the frigid forest, but may have been floundering in relationships, guilt, uncertainty and each one may not have seen the light beckoning them forward...towards a place of warmth, understanding and answers.

Hearing Dr. Lichtenstein's voice in her work challenged me in many ways. I began to ask myself the hard questions; "How am I lost?", "What am I missing?", "What do I truly need?" and most importantly, "What am I wandering towards?". At every junction in our lives, we find ourselves in places, in situations and in circumstances we never envisioned. Some of these aimless wanderings turn out to be exceptionally fortuitous. Others tend to sneak up on us. I may think I know where I am, where I'm going and what my intentions are, and may still flounder about, lacking even the most rudimentary clue as to where I'm meant to be. I feel as if I've set out on one journey, map in hand, directions well written and necessary supplies packed. Yet, when I arrive at my destination, I realize that I was heading the wrong way the entire time...and certainly had brought the wrong provisions. I tend to stumble through life, absolutely confident in my steps, until I discover I've managed to bungle the very trip itself. It's both humbling and troubling.

Yet, without realizing that I'm off course, there isn't any way to make course corrections. My GPS (or built in navigation system) in my car has changed my life. Born with a severe handicap of inability to properly read maps or follow directions based on anything other than landmarks, driving has always been an adventure for me. My GPS now tells me how to get where I'm going. However, if I take a detour, it corrects my course based on side trip I've made. Instead of asking me to backtrack and go back the way I came, my mechanical voiced co-pilot lets me know the 'new way' of finding my destination. I love her. I do yell at her, when I'm alone in the car, when she tells me to make U-turns (legally, of course), but overall, she's been a great asset to my many trips around New England...and even cross country, between Arizona and Maine. I realize how much easier my life would be if I had a GPS to guide me through my decision making processes. How helpful it would feel to know that there's a machine that has my back, who is going to politely correct me when I go off course, and who only has my safe and timely arrival as her mission!

Since none of us come with Tom-Toms or Garmins built into our psyche, the best we can do, when we realize how woefully lost we are, is to stop right where we are. If we're physically lost in the woods, rescue workers always say to stay put initially. We may have had a nagging suspicion that the direction we're heading in life is leading to a dead end. We may also begin to get that gut level feeling that we're just not doing the right thing. Rather than race further down the wrong path, we need to come to a complete stop. We need to evaluate where we are, what we're doing and most of all, what we want to be doing. We need to talk with our family and friends and, without overloading them with drama, get their impressions. Those who know us, and love us, are best qualified to act as our navigation system, when we are sure we've gone too far into the woods. Listen with an open heart and an open mind. Pray. Journal. Try new experiences. And, then, when you're ready, set that new course, knowing that you're on track once again.

We can't always prevent ourselves from losing our way. Sometimes getting lost is part of the journey itself, even if we can't see the lessons immediately. What we can do, however, is to allow ourselves to be found.