Does Happiness Have a Sound?

Lately, I've been amazed at how loud the autumn leaves are.  They crunch underfoot, and those left in the trees chatter as the wind blows.  And then there's the haunting whisper of a leaf as it descends--barely audible--but still vibrating whether I perceive it or not.

I stop everything and gaze at that leaf.  It arrives on the ground soft and silent.  

What beautiful sounds never reach my ears?  If I stop and think about it, I'm hearing so many things at this exact moment I'm surprised I'm not crashing from auditory overload.

I know I'm growing older.  Movie soundtracks seem too loud and assaulting.  I can barely handle the frenzied circus beat of a video game.  I've been known to scream out, "Can't we just have some quiet?"

I want enough quiet so I can hear beautiful sounds:  the purr of a cat, the clink of ice in a tall glass of water served to guests, the hush of wool socks on the hardwood floor.  I want to hear the gurgle of homemade sauce simmering and the teasing fingers of the first drops of rain on the roof.  

And the measured sigh a page of a book exhales when I turn it. 

I take my hearing for granted.  One day, I might lose it all together.

I want a beautiful soundtrack to accompany this day.  I want to be still enough--aware enough--to hear it.  Living with flair means I manage the auditory track.  Might I be a gatekeeper for my ears and my living space?   Might I create a culture of beautiful sounds in my home--the kind of sounds that delight and don't disturb?

Something Strange at the Voting Booth

In my neighborhood, we all gather at the small Baptist church to vote.  We come and line up, all of us representing different party affiliations.  I love this moment, and sometimes I've even been known to cry right there in the line. 

I'm one very tiny voice in a very large democracy.  My ballot represents my voice in this system, and I come out of duty.  Here we are--all of us together--participating in this supreme right of citizenship. 

I'm in line, and I notice that nothing is happening.  We aren't moving along.  I look ahead, and I see an elderly woman so hunched over with age that nobody can see her face.  She's propped up by a helper on her left and a cane in her right hand.  Her movements are painfully slow.  The folks working the polls stop everything to assist her.  A chorus of helpers ask:  Can she make it over to her booth?  Is the booth too high?  Can she hold the pen and cast her vote? 

It's like slow motion.  When we observe her, we all start rooting for her.  Volunteers call her by name to make sure she can reach the booth.  We are all participating in this moment now.  This woman needs to cast her vote.  Nothing will thwart her.  The moment takes on a weight I wasn't prepared to experience. 

It's a beautiful moment.  I feel suddenly aware of my own lack of interest in this particular election.  I'm aware of how inconvenient it felt for me to drive over to the church and stand in line.  I'm saddened by the fact that I had to print out a voter's guide because I didn't recognize half the names of the candidates on the ballot. 

The woman who nobody could stop from voting has a name and a story.  She has an opinion and a voice that shapes our nation.  Her presence makes me realize another way I want to live with flair.  I need to show up and participate as a citizen.  And I need to help others do the same.  You have a name, an opinion, and a story we need to hear to help make our nation great. 

Love is a Tornado

This morning, my daughter hands me a little card that says her love for me is like a tornado.  She drew a picture of a tornado and wrote, "It's like this." 

I turn to her and say, "You mean it's powerful and destructive?"

She smiles and pretends she's punching me.  She tries to explain the comparison:  "It gets stronger each day like a tornado gets stronger with each spin." 

Her tornado is a giant mess of scribble that looks terrifying.  

Love is a tornado? 

That can't be right.   

My husband adds at breakfast that a tornado is like love because you "never know where it's coming from." It can take you by surprise (like how I met him when I least expected it).  

I look at this little family.  I think of the kind of love that breaks the heart and repairs it simultaneously.  I think of the terrifying surrender of it, the giant mess of living lives intertwined. I think of the powerful destruction that love's wake leaves on the landscape of a heart.  It's a tornado that rips you apart.

But it's the kind of devastation you endure because there's no other way to have it.  It's the most beautiful storm you'll ever experience. 

I hug my children--these little tornadoes in my heart--and think about the kind of love I want in my life.  Let it be giant and powerful.  Let it get stronger each day. 

Let it destroy what in me needs to be leveled and remake a pure landscape.  


(Photo:  Public Domain. Credit: OAR/ERL/National Severe Storms Laboratory (NSSL) via [pingnews])