Mariment Laughter Yoga

     When the big January snow came, I was thrilled to see the flakes fat and fluffy building up into drifts across the yard.  Even though it was bitter cold, I decided that age shouldn't deter me from playing in the snow.

     I tricked Gene into coming outside by mentioning that the bird feeders needed filling, "...And when we're done filling the feeders, lets go for a walkabout."

     The snow had built up over two feet after a few days, but a few inches from the top was an icy layer.  Who would have thought that walking around the house, over the bridge and alongside the creek would be so difficult?  Having snow over my kneecaps made walking a challenge.  Each step meant I had to raise my booted foot up out of the snow in a high step before stepping down again.  High-stepping is for majorettes and Rockettes.  I'm neither.  I felt like an awkward ostrich clomping through the snow.

     Due to the frigid air, the snow was light and soft even though it was deep, sohere was no way to make a snowball or snowman. 

     After walking around for awhile I stumbled when making a high step on a slight incline and tripped.  I landed on my side and couldn't get up for laughing so hard.  I could imagine the neighbors looking out their windows exclaiming, "Oh dear!  Someone has fallen in the snow and must be hurt.  She can't get up!"  Of course that thought made me laugh harder.  Gene thought I'd lost my marbles rather than my footing.

     As we turned our feet towards home, I had one last thought.  I couldn't remember the last time I'd made a snow angel, so I threw myself backwards onto the snow.  Of course the icy layer thwarted my attempts at a snow angel and instead of making a beauty I ended up looking like I was hailing passing helicopters.

     It's exhilarating to step outside one's comfort level.  It was comfier inside our house with a cup of hot cocoa, but the cocoa was made sweeter by our outdoor adventure. 

     Skirting around Chardon Square, my car putters up the steep Park Avenue hill and I notice a tree alongside Chardon Cemetery that looks like it's screaming...arms outstretched to the sky.  The tree reminds me of Edvard Munch's painting "The Scream."

     Is the tree screaming in fright, like its human counterpart in the painting?  After all, it stands sentinel right by the cemetery gates.  Who know what spirits shudder the tree after midnight?

     Is the tree screaming in pain?  The whole center of its bower had been removed to make way for power lines.  If limbless soldiers feel ache in missing limbs, does a tree ache in missing branches?

     Is the tree screaming in laughter?  Seeing doughy bicyclists weave up the challenging hill might amuse the tree.  Watching caravans of geese and goslings cross the road might make it laugh.  Feeling the juicy autumn breezes might cause it to wheeze, "Aaaaiiii!  That tickles!"

     Screaming tree, I feel your pain but also hear your rustling leaves laughing at me.