Laughter and Grief

 

The Troglodytes of Whimsy and Mercy

(This is from my essay that was published in Huffington Post a few years ago.)

For the most part, death isn’t funny.

 

“Grief” and “humor” aren’t often used in the same sentence. There are moments in the beginning of grief when we’re laughing hysterically, but generally that’s in the middle of the night and it’s not a happy sound. Or we’re laughing while standing by ourselves in the woods holding on to a tree to keep from falling down. Or we’re in the shower staring at the soap for five minutes. These moments are more about trying not to cry than anything funny.

 

We know that we laughed before death smacked us so hard in the chest that we couldn’t breathe, and we expect to laugh sometime in the future, but how do we get there from here? When is it appropriate to laugh again after a death? Is there a code of conduct that specifies when smiles are okay, then when jokes are permitted, and finally when guffaws are kosher?

 

My own trip back to the land of levity started two months after Evelyn died when I smiled briefly after someone told a joke. Then my face went blank, and my thoughts slipped back into its dark pool of sorrow. I knew what he was saying was funny; I just couldn’t feel the humor. 

 

A month after this, I began making my own witty observations to others, along the lines of Dick Cavett’s dry humor. But this was head stuff—thoughts that were mostly ironic, some sardonic. It was noticing odd coincidences perched next to each other, like the line of six wild turkeys that marched in step across my lawn the other day.

 

Six months in, I began to enjoy simple, physical pleasures again—dark chocolate, sharp cheddar quesadillas, IPA beer, and the aroma of pine forests. But my battered heart was still numb to levity.

 

It would take nine months for an actual laugh to escape, and that came out more like a burp. Belly laughs were at the far end of two years down the road. I don’t know if this is the typical schedule for most people. The first time we snicker or chortle, we feel guilty, and it takes time to get over this. 

 

In general, laughter doesn’t get its due in everyday life. It’s not just a frivolous, lighthearted diversion. Laughing releases tension in the body, and helps us cope with serious illnesses. It’s also a barometer of our wellbeing and a healthy response to life’s ironies. Humor functions like a Zen koan or a New Testament parable. When we realize the illogic of a situation, and catch the sudden insight into something profound, we laugh with astonishment. Robin Williams was good at pointing these out, as was Lily Tomlin and Richard Pryor. Norman Cousins watched old comedies when he was seriously ill and laughed himself back to health.

 

Although we admire the skill of the acrobats in a circus and the bravery of the lion tamers, it’s the clowns like Emmett Kelly that we love, those who use laughter to bring joy to those who haven’t laughed in a long time. 

 

Every culture has its fools, clowns, or tricksters who remind their people that there is more going on in life than their grief, more than what they can see around them. Besides being a tribal leader of the Lakota Sioux, Black Elk was also a Heyoka, a holy fool, who comforted those who were mourning. The Russian and Greek Orthodox Churches have canonized a roomful of fools as saints, like St. Philip Neri. Buddhist fools include Pu-tai and Hanshan. Mulla Nasreddin Hoja was an Islamic Sufi fool.

 

I went on a grief retreat with 25 others, and it wasn’t long before dark humor surfaced. We were crying and laughing as we talked about our journey through grief, and we shared the silly things we did to cope on the hard days when grief threatened to pull us down. Laughter released the pressure inside and helped us breathe. We found it cathartic to poke fun at death and, by doing so, we took back some control over our lives.

 

Laughter reopened the love and compassion in our hearts to others. When we can laugh in Death’s face, then Death doesn’t win.