(AKA Why Farting is Funny)

Last night, in the twilight gloaming, I found myself standing in my kitchen, gazing forlornly out the window, toward the lake and the setting sun. A profound melancholy filled my soul. A deep, aching sadness, the kind you cannot define or identify its source. With a somber song in the background, providing a soulful soundtrack to this mournful moment, I leaned against my kitchen bar and heaved a heavy sigh. The crushing weight of the world, its tragedies and traumas, both personal and global, seemed unendurable.

And then I farted.

One of those “where the heck did that come from?” rapid-fire, machine-gun farts that goes on longer than one would think possible and louder than a mezzo soprano’s final aria.

Thank goodness I was alone. Although I will admit the ensuing laughter might have been fun to share with someone else. Because laugh I did. Head-shaking, gut-guffawing laughter which immediately expunged all that world-weary Weltschmerz and replaced it with a surprising blanket of glee.

Because life is funny. I mean, it sure as heck can be.

It can also be brutal and suffocating and challenging and wretched. But life is funny. IF you remember to laugh.

Yes, tragedies will befall us and trials may seem insurmountable. Grief might paralyze us (for a time) and The Universe might throw a hurricane into our backyard and destroy the life we lovingly built. Quite literally, ANYTHING could happen. And probably will.

And then guess what? We all gonna die. (You must say this in a southern drawl, like some postulating evangelical screwball!)

Yes. We are all going to die. Who knows when or how but it will happen. So let us please remember to laugh while we are alive.

I have a dear friend whose husband just passed. It was unexpected, compounded by a lengthy wait while those in the know determined how long her beloved should remain plugged in and just exactly when that plug should be pulled.

Pull it they did (after ten days of distressing disquietude), while she and her offspring stood in attendance. The beeps stopped beeping; the room was silent. But he did not die. Apparently this is quite normal. Sometimes it takes time. Lots of time. And so her daughters went off for coffee, leaving her alone with her husband.

Feeling an immense surge of love and longing, my friend crawled up on the bed with her spouse for a final snuggle. It was awkward, especially since all of the lines and tubes and beepers were still attached, and soon she found herself hopelessly entangled in all of the above. As she tried (unsuccessfully) to extricate herself from this wiry predicament, my friend found herself … laughing. “Just imagine the look on the nurse’s face!” she thought, “when she walks through that door and sees me dangling halfway to the floor like some poor dolphin trapped in a fisherman’s net.”

My friend’s husband was literally on death’s door and don’t get me wrong, she was wholly grief-stricken and spent. But … she found the humour. And she allowed it to exist. She didn’t bury it under her mountain of pain. She didn’t ignore it because it was “inappropriate.” She allowed it to exist and she allowed it to become a vital component of her experience.

I believe it behooves us all to give oxygen to humour whenever possible. Sometimes we are our own worst enemies when it comes to “state of mind”. We prefer to drown in depression because lollygagging in laughter might make us seem frivolous. Shallow. Unserious.

Might also make us happier.

Many years ago I found myself drowning in that very depression whilst attempting my daily yoga practice. I would start this session with deep breathing, awaiting the call from The Universe (which always came.)  What did I need to focus on? What did I need to think about? What aspect of my psyche was in need of attention and possible work?

On this particular day I was very sad but I breathed and waited and waited some more and … nothing. Where the hell was The Universe? I was in need, damnit! I was in a state. I required help!

Nada.

So I started anyway. With a downward dog. And as my hands went down and my butt went up, my boobs ingloriously flopped out of my tank top.

I collapsed onto my mat in fits of laughter. I got it! I understand, oh clever Universe! Lighten up, Vickie! Stop taking everything so seriously. Laugh at yourself! Not every damn thing has to be a hardship waiting to happen. Be amused! Enjoy the levity! Laugh at yourself.

Whenever possible. Laugh at yourself.

We all make a thousand choices every single day. And most of those choices involve deciding how to respond. How to react. How to deal with whatever gets thrown in our path. Obviously, we cannot respond to everything with humour. But I would wager we can choose to respond to a far greater percentage of life’s foibles with a modicum of amusement. Find the fun. Welcome the whimsy. Enjoy the jocularity.

If you need help, think of me as your own personal whoopee cushion. At your service …