Laughing and Crying

So, the first thing I do every morning is turn on the radio in the bathroom, which is always tuned to NPR, so I can listen to the news of the day and any other interesting tidbits that may air.  I listen on the way to work and on the way home.  Most of the time, it's honestly, mainly just background chatter to argue with whatever is running through my head at those times of the day, i.e. what lies ahead for my work day when I'm on my way there and what I didn't get accomplished by trying to find the end of the internet while I was at work, instead of working, when I'm headed home.  Sometimes, though, something catches a thread in my brain and begins to tug, pulling me away from my brilliant plan or endless self torture for not doing what I'd told myself I was gonna do.  I leave the bindings of my self centeredness and enter the story that's being told about someone else, somewhere in this world, doing good deeds, accomplishing amazing results with small efforts or struggling through what I would see as insurmountable circumstances with a grace I could only begin to touch the surface of.  Today was such a day.

I always seem to be drawn to the stories with a musical base, seeing as my Higher Power seems to "speak" to me through the sounds of artists old and new, country and punk, classical and metal.  Whatever I need to get to the next place on my path, I seem to find in the notes that are strummed, drummed, plucked, screamed or sung.  This story today was on a project a man is working on to recognize the role of one Charlie Poole in the origins of country music. The song that he was playing was called High, Wide and Handsome.  A song about drinking and dieing and lauging and crying.  The lyric that struck me was in a chorus about what the lamenter wanted on his tombstone.  Sad?  No, because I am not one to be all that afraid of death.  It happens to all of us.  I am more afraid of life.  Always have been and will be until I have nothing left to be frightened of.  The song said, as the body of his tombstone, he wanted it to say, "And always remember that I laughed twice as hard as I ever cried." 

That phrase opened up an avenue in my brain.  Avenue my ass, it was a damn Expressway!  A road to the reality of my life.  No matter how much pain I've endured through the years; physical, emotional and spiritual, the gut wrenching wailing at the top of my lungs, the sniffling tears that have trickled off my chin and the silent inside sobs that I wouldn't allow anyone to see, will never reach the point of surpassing my laughter.  I have giggled, snickered, guffawed, snorted, died laughing, convulsed, cracked up, chuckled and howled.  I can contain pain, but can NEVER seem to supress a fucking laugh, even when it's TOTALLY inappropriate.  That's the absolute truth, so why can't I ever seem to remember that when I'm hurting?  Why is it when I'm miserable, I can never recall the last time I laughed?  My memory of pain is still there when I'm joyous, so how come it's not true in reverse?  Doesn't seem too fair, but hey, we all know life ain't too big on bein' fair.  I accept that.  I've learned that acceptance doesn't mean I have to like it.  I'll just laugh it off, because right now, "I remember that I laughed twice as hard as I ever cried."

LOL, ROFLMAO.  For now...  :)