I chose my word: smile. Oh, and I'm keeping a list of my laugh attacks.

Saskia Keultjes, illustrator and gif nerd (see the eyes on this dress move). 

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I chose it.

I’ve joined countless others and chose a word to guide my thoughts and actions for the coming year. It will be the how of what I think, say, and do.

My word is love (it’s always love) and SMILE. As in lift my lips up ever so slightly no matter what shows up. (This is one of the things I learned from Thich Nhat Hanh.)

I'm not suggesting stuffing feelings. (I believe feeling equals healing.) Rather, I want to practice feeling joy in experiences, to be glad I can see my plight and stay with it. (Perhaps a better word is ease.) 

This page from my 2006 journal (after my son passed on) expresses what I mean:

I want to consciously and more consistently practice smiling.

To extend this smile choice a bit I’ve also decided to keep a laugh attack journal to record the times when my smiles lighten up enough that I can laugh like the dickens. 

Here's something I'll list as a laugh attack. It happened about 6 years ago.

Terry (partner) and I are traveling. (Honey, if you're here, this is too good not to share.)

Just before landing in Amsterdam, tired and eager to get out of the plane, I look over at Terry. He’s holding his glasses in his hands. They're broken in half in the middle at the nose piece. Fumbling, he tries to wear two monocles, each held on by one ear and unconnected in the middle. One lens is popped out. 

Uh oh.

I watch as he takes that lens and gently places it in his pocket. No words. Just that.

If that had happened to me it would be no problem. I’m not legally blind and without a backup pair of glasses and scheduled to do a public lecture in two days.

They’re pretty crooked and I’m imagining that lecture.

I want to blame my behavior on a lack of sleep. First, a quiet giggle and then all out laughter. I can’t stop laughing. Terry knows I’m not laughing at him, but this is not the least bit funny to him.

We do what we always do. Gather our luggage, take the train to the city, and head for our hotel. It’s located in midtown. We’re tired, and one of us is crabby. The other—she still can’t stop laughing.

Usually we walk to our hotel. But we decide to hire one of those bike cabs used for romantic street roams to enjoy the architecture and canals.

The cabbie drags our luggage (two heavy bags) to the back rack and plops them in. I get the first hint that this is a bad idea. Why we didn’t just take a car cab, I don’t know.

In we get.

Terry and I are hunched and sitting real close in a rickety basket. I could kiss that one lens with no movement.

(I’m crying laughing as I write this.)

The cabbie gets pedaling. He’s breathing hard and visibly struggling and we’re headed for a steep bridge. About three-quarters of the way up, the cabbie is suspended in motion standing up with the pedals even. He’s trying with all his might but he can’t move us forward. We’re going nowhere.

I look over at one-eyed Terry and laugh as if I’d been storing hilarious for a year.

We get out and the cabbie walks the bike over the hill.

This is what I’m talking about.

My journal simply holds a notation of the event (Amsterdam bike cab ride the day Terry’s glasses break). 

Writing this reminds me that light-heartedness helps.

Now to calm down. 

Living in wonder, when kids go out for recess

Living in the Wonder, artist Lori Portka

I am on the playground with preschool children. It is late spring (2005). A week of rain makes the grass thickly lush. I check for puddles, mainly muddy ones, and discover it’s dry enough to play outside. I wave to my team teacher to let her know. 

We can play outside! We offer encouragement as the children pass through the classroom door to the sunshine.

“Have fun!”

“Use your running skills.”

“Give your play 100%.”

“Balance with full attention.”

“Yell as loud as you want.”

“Use your bird-watching skills.”

“Rake with joyful rhythm.”

“Breathe deeply.”

“Let your eyes chase the clouds.”

“Jump your highest.”

“Practice your friendship skills.”

She gives as many affirmations as there are children. 

They walk on a sidewalk adjacent to a large asphalted space reserved for bouncing balls, jumping rope, chalk drawing, and bike riding before they reach the grass. When they reach the grass, they run.

They run with abandon. Their faces have in-the-moment, whimsical expressions. 

Some children run straight at me and hug my legs.

Deena says to some of the younger kids, “Let’s be a family.  Do you want to go to the grocery store?” They pretend they have grocery carts and gallop to a maple tree, which she’s designated as the store.

Max holds a soccer ball while running to the soccer field and invites, “Who wants to be a goalie?” 

Anna and Brenna hold hands, “Brenna, do you want to chase me?” and Brenna does. Off they run!

I notice Safia. She raises her arms above her head and quickly flings them down, hands on the grass as her legs fly up in a handstand. She does this again and again, pausing briefly to look up and spin a half circle before repeating the process. I watch her smile. I think about how I spend time early in the morning training my mind to be present in life, like Safia's expressions. Her delight brings happiness. 

Deena, Max, Anna, Brenna. They are smiling and happy.

After watching the children, I let their smiles turn the edges of my mouth up slightly. This relaxes the over 300 muscles in my face. I soften and feel myself take a deep breath. 

I recall Thich Nhat Hanh’s (Thay's) words, “Our smile will bring happiness to us and to those around us. Even if we spend a lot of money on gifts for everyone in our family, nothing we buy could give them as much happiness as the gift of our awareness, our smile (Peace is Every Step, 6).” 

NOTES
Children have a breadth of experience on the playground, a place where they practice relating to what's before them. Children also sometimes argue, cry, fight, and express feelings. I notice how attentive they are to these experiences as well. Open and attentive. Curious, in a gradual walk toward wonder.