Month: January 2018

Put Yourself On the Bright Side of Life

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

laughter-new I more than realize that there are many serious issues that we humans face, but I often wonder if we have generally become far too humorless. I believe that there is no better cure for what ails us than a really good belly laugh, but these days cracking a joke is akin to walking through a mine field. There will almost always be someone who takes offense from words intended only as a joke. As a society we just don’t seem to have a healthy sense of humor anymore, and I suspect that being that way has become the source of many of our problems.

The old saying suggests that if we laugh the world will laugh with us. I tend to believe the truth of that platitude, as long as the comedy is not intended to be mean spirited or cruel. It’s been proven time and again that laughter is indeed a form of medicine, but we have become very thin-skinned and more and more likely to find offense in what once might have made us roar with delight. I think that people would find themselves to be less likely targets if they would instead simply enjoy the humor and join the fun. I’ve found laughter to be an incredible release of tension that has the power to join people together rather than pull them apart. God knows that we could use a bit of unity.

I heard about a school in India where children are literally given classes in laughter. They are encouraged to learn how to engage in deep belly shaking howls of hilarity that bring grins to their faces and make them feel renewed. While it may seem like a somewhat strange concept, the reality is that the ability to laugh is one of nature’s greatest gifts to us that we sometimes forget to use.

Some of my fondest memories center around hilarious moments when I laughed so hard that I literally had tears streaming down my face. My best teachers were the ones who engaged us with stories that made us chuckle and those who were willing to join us in our merriment. I recall the time that we created hydrogen sulfide in the science lab and then blew the rotten egg smell toward our mathematics teacher’s classroom. When we enticed him to open his door we grabbed our sides with glee even as he feigned anger to please us.

Then there was the occasion when our English teacher recounted his trip to a proctologist. We nearly fell out of our chairs we were laughing so hard. Few comedians have ever entertained me as much as our beloved instructor did. He definitely secured our attention and kept it even when he needed to be serious. We loved him so much that we were in awe from the moment that we walked into his classroom each day. The fact that he encouraged us to enjoy a good joke with him was a powerful motivator and one of the most powerful tools that he used with us.

There are movies with scenes so classically funny that they tickle me every single time that I see them. Mel Brooks was a master at creating situations that were hilarious, and it’s almost impossible to watch Monty Python without breaking out in a great big grin. We revisit movies like Christmas Vacation and Elf year after year because they make us smile, something that always feels good no matter what our life has otherwise been like.

I always appreciated that both George W. Bush and Barrack Obama were willing to become part of jokes about themselves. They enjoyed the idea of humor rather than feeling hurt by the skits and word play. They were eager to be part of the fun because they understood that we can’t be serious all of the time. Sometimes laughter is our saving grace. The trick is in knowing when it is appropriate and when we must be more solemn.

Years ago when my husband Mike was receiving chemotherapy for a very serious fungal disease a friend of his came to the hospital to visit. He had us in stitches with an imitation of a farmer providing advice on how to get rid of the offending infection. He suggested that Mike should get some Green Light fungicide and create a curative cocktail. He went on and on with the joke until Mike almost fell out of his bed with unrestrained laughter. It was the best medicine that he had received and the first time that he had felt so good in many weeks.

Much like Mike’s irreverent friend the Irish are known for their wakes that often become rather raucous. I once worked with a teacher from Ireland who told us tales of one occasion when she and her friends went to great pains to install a spring inside the coffin of one of her relatives. When unsuspecting visitors were kneeling in front of the deceased, they would push a button that caused the corpse to rise into a sitting position. She and the other pranksters would howl with delight as the frightened guests nearly fainted from fright. My friend impishly told this story with a mischievous twinkle in her eye and as we laughed at her antics I always found myself wondering if she had actually put one over on us with a fictional tale or if her story was actually true. Whatever the case she always noted that the purpose of the trickery had been to bring some levity into an occasion that was far too laden with tears and that their plan actually worked.

We may not be quite ready to follow my Irish friend’s lead when it comes to funerals but the point is that laughter can be a cure for the blues. Instead of huffing with indignation so often, we would do well to let ourselves go and put ourselves on the bright side of life. 

The Builder

Published on by Sharron Burnett1 Comment

40e8039a1c47edf3e2821bc05c59f15a--basement-workshop-nail-storage-garage

There was a hardware store near our home that my father visited each Saturday with an almost religious fervor. It was a sacred place in which I ultimately felt the full extent of my father’s happiness. Happily he regularly took me on his weekly excursions and I always felt special as we wandered together through the aisles of tools and gadgets and fasteners while my dad explained the purposes of the different items. He was in his element inside that store and his face willingly gave away the happiness that being there provided him. Whenever I think of him I recall the bins of nails of every size and remember his lessons on why there were so many different kinds. I can still see him carefully weighing the proper variety for his latest project on the metal scales that hung from chains connected to the ceiling. I can smell the aromas of oil, wood, and metal that permiatted the concrete floors and the wooden studs of the walls. This was a cathedral dedicated to the carpenters, plumbers and electricians of this world. In Daddy’s case it was a shrine for all who love to build the edifices and implements that we use to bring us comfort.

My father never treated me as though I was too young to understand what he was doing. It didn’t seem to occur to him that as a girl I might not have been interested in the things that he so loved. He spoke to me about his passion for construction and explained the hows and whys of his work. Thus it was that he allowed me to sit at his side as he created a miniature replica of our first home. He carefully drafted a blueprint and showed me how to shrink the proportions of the rooms into a drawing that fit on a single sheet of paper. I could not have been more than four years old when he demonstrated the techniques of scale to me, for I had not yet started school when he first told me of his idea. Somehow Daddy assumed that I possessed enough intellect to understand his calculations in spite of my youthfulness, and he was so right. I was mesmerized by the process and willing to sit quietly on a stool while he demonstrated his skill at his drafting table.

The next phase of his work was to build a tiny house that would resemble our home in every imaginable detail. I was fascinated as he measured and cut pieces of balsa wood to create a frame for the structure. Even before he had inserted the walls and other features I was able to see the rooms unfolding just as I knew them to be. It took many weeks and many visits to the hardware store to finish the lovely reproduction. Sometimes weeks would pass before he had time to return to the task of making the tiny house that almost appeared to be the work of fairies rather than a man. I was astounded when it was finally complete because the details were so exact. He had somehow managed to create an illusion of cedar shakes and bricks and shingles that was a perfect copy of the house where we lived. He had designed the roof so that it could be lifted to reveal the interior rooms with their gleaming wooden floors and brightly painted walls. It was a masterpiece in my eyes and I felt a quiet joy in having observed the entire process. Sadly I have no idea what eventually happened to that wonderful creation. I would give anything just to see it once again and to explain to my children and grandchildren how wonderful it was to have been a witness to my father’s painstaking work.

My daddy was just as likely to educate me regarding other things that he built as well. When I was about seven we had moved to a new home and he was annoyed that we had to walk on the grass to get to the front door from the driveway. He muttered that the builder should have thought to create a sidewalk leading to the entrance. Before long he had decided to rectify the omission himself and once again he used the project as an opportunity to teach me about the proper methods for installing a concrete pathway.

He began by carefully digging out the grass in a pattern that resembled the desired design of what would be the final product. After seeming to take forever to level the ground and straighten the lines he next built a form with wood and and string, taking care to survey his measurements accurately. He allowed the structure to cure for a time to be certain that the ground was not going to shift. He also watched the drainage pattern and made adjustments to insure that there were not low points that would hold water. Then he began filling the bottom of the wooden platform with metal rebar and even bits of nails and other metal shavings left from other things that he had built. He told me that the metal was the secret ingredient for insuring that the sidewalk would last for years without cracks or erosion. Finally came the day when he mixed and poured the concrete spreading it until it was smooth and as perfect as he insisted that it should be.

Nobody was allowed to walk on his creation for days until he was certain that it was set exactly as he had hoped. He was quite proud of the outcome and so was I. Our neighbors commented on how nice it was and joked that they were going to hire him to build one for their houses as well. Daddy boasted that it was a fine structure that would last for a very long time. In fact it has endured even longer than he did. I recently drove past our old home and saw that the sidewalk was as strong as ever. It was not leaning nor did it have any cracks. It had withstood decades of use, sixty two years to be exact. As I saw how well it had performed I swelled with pride in knowing that my father had built it with his ingenuity and engineering skills. More importantly he had believed enough in me to share his knowledge with me, something that made me feel capable and appreciated.

To this very day I find great pleasure in sauntering through hardware stores. I especially enjoy the ones that are more in line with those of old. I prefer the bins of nails and bolts over the plastic packages that are the modern day norm. I consider an outing to Harbor Freight or Ace Hardware with my husband to be a delightful activity. Repairing things or building something is as much fun for me as taking a vacation trip.

I suppose that a psychologist would attribute my love of constructing to the tragic loss of my father when I was only eight years old. My childhood memories of him revolve around books and building and Texas A&M University football. I only truly know him through the brief amount of time that we shared, and yet it was so revealing of who he was that recalling the feelings that I felt provides me with comfort. He demonstrated his love for me by teaching me about the things that mattered so much to him. He was a great father if only for a very short time. 

While I will never truly understand some of the mysteries surrounding Daddy’s death nor the void that he left when he was gone, I treasure the recollections that he left me. The emotions that I associate with the simple act of wandering through a hardware store are visceral and as real as if he were standing next to me with his boyish grin of anticipation about the next thing that he was going to build. When I remember I am filled with pleasure and a sense of security because I know for certain how much he loved me, and for that I will always be grateful. He was a builder not just of things, but of beautiful relationships and dreams. 

Talk Softly With A Big Stick

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

c7726dd5309cc52f3e75fdd60578841fSo here we are today with twelve unwritten chapters lying before us, and three hundred sixty five opportunities to impact the trajectory of our lives. It’s both frightening and exciting to imagine what might happen in the coming year, which will no doubt bring many surprises both good and bad. There will be events over which we have no control, but on any given day we have within ourselves the power to choose how to react. The beauty of a brand new year is that we may change if we wish and slowly but surely redirect our lives in the days and weeks ahead, or we may instead wish to forge ahead in the same direction. Our free will allows us to be the masters of our souls even in the most hellish situations.

As we begin yet another revolution around the sun there are people who find themselves in a state of horror through no fault of their own. There are presently people in Yemen suffering from one of the worst outbreaks of cholera in decades. The citizens of Puerto Rico are struggling at an excruciatingly slow pace to rebuild their hurricane battered island, and closer to home there are exhausted souls in Houston and Rockport who are still waiting to return to their houses that were so devastated by floodwaters. The war in Syria rages on destroying innocents in its path of destruction and hate. Somehow there appears to be no end to the fighting that has so engulfed the lives of people who mostly just long for peace to return.

There is much to be done to set things aright across the globe, and the challenge for all of us will be to make the correct choices, something that is never as easy as it seems because there is no crystal ball to accurately predict the future. There are instead vituous behaviors that almost always make a difference as history has illustrated time and again. We have the power of advocating for the good as each of us attempt to live purpose driven lives. If our focus is on morality we will ultimately overcome even the darkest enemies to common decency.

I’ve always enjoyed listening to talk radio and there are plenty of stations from which to choose, but I have grown weary of the ugly chatter that dominates so many of the channels. I have found refuge in NPR which presents a variety of interesting topics and discussions that have provoked my thinking and kept me apprised of world events far beyond my own limited geographic reach. I particularly enjoy listening to the BBC news hour for a slightly different take on the happenings from across the globe.

On a recent afternoon BBC featured an interview with Prince Harry and former President Barrack Obama. It was a quiet and reasoned exchange of questions and ideas without the usual bombast that has become so much a part of the fare on radio and television. President Obama spoke of his concern over the nasty nature of social media. He noted that the relative anonymity and spontaneity of platforms such as Twitter and Facebook has lead people to have a kind a false courage which allows them to post their comments without the usual filters that polite society often demands. A kind of gritty ugliness often pervades the back and forth of the word battles that ensue. In the process individuals belittle the topics under discussion and engage in wars of words that sometimes harm as much as bullets might. Too often they lead to unnecessary schisms and sadly even violence.

I was quite taken by President Obama’s words and found myself in total agreement with his insistence that it is time that we learn as a society how to properly deal with the power of social media. We might begin with ourselves, but more importantly we should provide guidance to our young who are so often wounded by insults and insinuations aimed at them. We don’t need to eliminate the powerful forms of communication that are at our fingertips, but we can certainly learn to better use them.

I would have felt utterly isolated during the floods of hurricane Harvey were it not for social media and my television. Those outlets kept me apprised of what was happening all around me and provided a sense of security. Instead of imagining what was happening to my friends and loved ones I was receiving real time messages that sometimes included images. Those of us affected by the storms were able to reach out to one another and find a kind of reassurance in the oneness of our dilemma. This is the tremendous good of social media and one of the chief reasons that we need not and should not simply abandon it. Instead we all should find ways to make it better and more inclusive as our former president suggests.

There is definitely evil in the world that we must face down with grim determination. We can’t live in Disneyland even if it we wish upon a star. Back in 1940, unspeakable horror was marching through Europe with almost no resistance. There was a false belief that surrender was the quickest road to peace, a judgement that proved to have horrific consequences for those countries who gave up so readily. It was Great Britain, and in particular Winston Churchill, that faced down Adolf Hitler all alone and with little hope of doing more than keeping the Nazis at bay. It must have seemed dangerously hopeless back then when all of Europe seemed to be within Hitler’s grasp. How different our world might have been had Churchill folded into submission as so many of the European nations had already done. What kind of horrific world would we have witnessed without his resolve and that of his people. Following his example we would all do well to determine just how much we are willing to concede just to avoid controversy. Sometimes we have to steel ourselves for battles that demand to be fought, but we must also learn how important it is to avoid arguments that matter little.

As we enter this new year I pray with all of my heart that we will be ever more decent in our treatment of each other and of all the people of the world. It is my hope that we will know when to stand firmly with our principles and when to compromise. I wish for all of us to possess the wisdom to know the difference. I want our leaders to choose the common good over their own egos even if it means that they must endure criticism and loss of power. Sometimes we instinctively understand what is right and what is wrong and we must stand with all that is good. Talk softly in most situations, but carry a big stick for those moments when it is right and just to rid the world of those who would do us harm. That is our yearly, monthly, weekly, daily task. If we have erred, we simply begin again. That is the ultimate beauty of living and the challenge of each new year.

May each of you find the beauty in a moment and the hope in each tick of the clock. May you discover the ultimate purpose of your life and follow its path with confidence. Look for the good, but be wary of the evil. Spread love as far as you are able and be brave when you need to be. Always think of our children and teach them about the power of the forces that reside in their souls. Remember that when all is said and done love will always triumph. Be patient as the surprising joys of life unfold. 

Happy New Year!