Happy.

Happy. Content. Peaceful.

In recent days, the question of what makes me happy has come up in two different places.

On Thursday, Mary Campbell, at Writer’s Butt Does Not Apply to Me, passed on the Happy 101 blog award to me, because (and I am not making this up) “[Christi] always has something sweet to say.” I like Mary (and her blog), and I wonder if Mary might write a letter of confidence for me and mail it to my husband the next time my sweet turns to sour.

But, seriously, I believe in Karma, and the Golden Rule. My mother always told me what goes around comes around. And, as I approach the start date for a novel workshop, and imagine the thought of eleven other writers cutting loose with feedback, I hope all that good Karma and those sugar-sweet words will carry me through critiques.

On Friday, my friend Dot Hearn, at The Writing Vein, posted her second Razor’s Edge writing prompt, which centered around Happiness. Dot addresses the theme in three different ways: a written prompt, a photo, and a song by Joanna Newsom. I was entranced by the song and video. The music even stopped my three-year old dead in her tracks.

“What’s that lady singing?” she asked.

I couldn’t answer. I was too busy listening and floating and falling in love with the harp.

[You’ll have to click over to Dot’s post to watch it. It’s lovely. Really.]

Both Mary and Dot posed the same question: what makes me happy?

As Dot points out, happiness runs deeper than that giddy, maniacal feeling I get when I stay up way past my bed time and suddenly everything is funny.

Although I admit, that kind of guttural laughter from me – and especially from my kids – will cancel out a bad day in a second, my concept of true happiness is defined by contentment and an understanding that if I am comfortable in my own skin, I am happy.

I treasure those moments when happiness runs deep, grips me just below my chest, and imparts a sensation that no matter what surrounds me, good or bad, I am here. In this moment. Alive. And, I am not alone.

That kind of happiness materializes in connections I make with those around me: my family, my friends, sometimes even strangers. In the absence of words, a glance, a smile and a nod, or a hand in mine touches my core and fills me up.

***

Eye to eye, we connect.
Our backgrounds are a blur.
Our mouths are quiet,
But our minds convey:
I see you.
I know you.
I understand.

***

happy. content. peaceful.

Incidental Fame

Well, it’s Wednesday. And, Wordsmith.org threw out a doozy today:

artiodactyl. adj. having an even number of toes on each foot.

At first, I read the definition wrong and thought, everyone has the same number of toes on each foot. Big deal.* Then, I remembered a girl back in middle school who lost one of her big toes in an accident with a lawn mower. She wore sandals anyway.

That’s intriguing, and brave. I could write about that.

But, the definition says an even number – like two, four, six, eight. Therein lies the challenge to write a story about feet that sidestep the standard five-toe precedence.

***

It was only because Allison royally pissed off her sister, Maggie, in 2007 that she agreed to the pre-wedding hair, nails, and make-up gig. She was still making amends for the Prom Queen shake up that happened their senior year at Rosemont High.

In high school, Maggie wore a cheerleader outfit and Allison dressed in Goth. When it came time to choose the Prom Queen, half the school voted for “that Carson girl.” It wasn’t until Maggie tried to take the stage, and the crown, at the Prom Dance that they both realized the school voted for Goth, not Glamour. The principal waved Maggie off the stage and motioned for Allison to take the spotlight.

That night, Maggie screamed across the dinner table that she was appalled and angry and “HUMILIATED!”

Allison shrugged her shoulders. “I had no idea,” she told her parents. “You know me, I only went to the Prom, because Maggie insisted!”

Maggie didn’t talk to Allison for the next two years.

Last Christmas, when Maggie got engaged, Allison agreed to stand up in her wedding. Wanting to keep the peace, she promised to do whatever Maggie asked to prepare. An up-do was hard enough to swallow, but when Maggie mentioned pedicure, Allison almost choked. In silent defiance, Maggie dared her to say no, to give good reason for another Maggie boycott. But, Allison just smiled.

“Sure, just say when and where!”

It was on a Saturday at a nail salon in a strip mall on the northwest side of town. After an hour and a half bus ride on a 100 degree day, Allison welcomed a foot soak and a rub. She eased her anxiety by reminding herself Maggie was the star of the show. All I have to do is sit, smile, and let them paint.

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Finding My Groove, Keeping my Rhythm

When I stepped out onto the dance floor last week, I knew there would be trouble. I hadn’t danced in years, so I was completely out of practice in the art letting loose.

Through the fog and colored lights, I eyed up the DJ: young, serious, mohawk. I saw him survey the crowd. Then, he scratched out a song I didn’t know. Even before moving an inch, I began to perspire.

I could have used a drink, but the hardest liquor to slide across the bar that night was a regular Mountain Dew, straight up. I was left to my own non-rhythmic devices. I started at the hips. Left, left, right. Right, right, left. I pivoted my toes in an effort to twist into the beat, but my groove was stopped short by my boots and their rubber soles.

Note to self: a non-slip sole crushes all dignity when dancing.

The dance floor filled up with younger, looser-hipped bodies. My eyes widened, my shoulders stiffened, and I smiled as if I were in pain. I limited my dance moves to two square feet of space, hoping not to be noticed. But as each arm locked into an L-position and alternated from front to back, my hips jolted. I danced the Robot without any intention of doing so.

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