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.

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.

Continue reading “Finding My Groove, Keeping my Rhythm”

In the Belly of a Cargo Plane

I planned to write a light-hearted post for today. But, it’s difficult to spin a frivolous tale on the day you pick up the newspaper and read painful estimates on the loss of life and homes caused by an event you’ve tried hard to deny. I’m not insensitive to disasters, but I’m prone to depression. I slide easily into hopelessness if I stay too long in a story where hope is hard to find.

Still, I couldn’t overlook the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel’s front page today. In the print version of the paper, a large photo (found online here – it takes a second to upload) from the associated press shows hundreds of people sitting on a cargo plane flying from Port-au-Prince to Orlando.

This morning, I scanned the faces. A young man sits next to a younger boy, and they are held together by a strap. Maybe it’s a seat belt, or a tether so neither get lost in the mass of wandering victims. A mother sits in the front looking down at two young boys. As both boys sleep on her lap, her hand graces the face of one.

I wonder what they dream about.

Hundreds of people crowded into the belly of a cargo plane, fleeing calamity with just the clothes on their back.

On today’s front page of the Local section in the Journal, a column written by Eugene Kane continues the discussion on Haiti. Though not directly related to the hundreds loaded on the cargo plane, Mr. Kane’s words* hone in on another block these refugees face as they wait for aid: US politics. Continue reading “In the Belly of a Cargo Plane”