Choosing Laughter in Dark Seasons
The Small Bird and the Striped Giant
There he stood — all stripes and quiet authority — bathed in the kind of golden morning light that makes the African grasslands look as though God has brushed them with honey.
A plains zebra. Solid. Steady. Entirely dignified.
And perched boldly near his eye?
A red-billed oxpecker.
Small. Scarlet. Completely unimpressed by size.
The zebra looked composed — the picture of calm strength — while this tiny bird conducted what appeared to be a very thorough facial inspection.
If zebras had thoughts, I imagine his might have been:
“This is not how I envisioned my morning.”
And I laughed.
Because there is something deliciously absurd about the vastness of the savanna — and then this small, fearless interruption perched right on the face of strength.
It felt like a metaphor for life.
The world may be enormous. Heavy. Striped with complexity.
And still — joy lands.
Uninvited.
Unintimidated.
Utterly comfortable up close.
Perhaps laughter works the same way.
It does not ask permission from seriousness.
It simply perches.
When Life Adds an Unexpected “Plot Twist”
The zebra did not wake up planning to host a bird.
And I did not wake up planning to host two root canals.
Life, apparently, has a sense of timing that does not consult my calendar.
After preparing mentally — heroically, I might add — for knee replacement surgery, I was informed during a dental exam that I had a dead tooth.
A dead tooth.
I would like to clarify that I am still very much alive and attached to it.
This revelation meant a root canal.
Which then meant two root canals.
Because once the dentist is in there, apparently teeth begin confessing secrets.
And now I am looking forward to another hour and a half in the dentist chair in ten days — which feels less like a spa retreat and more like a hostage situation with polite lighting.
The knee surgery has been rescheduled for March 10th.
Again.
My body and I are apparently renegotiating terms.
And somewhere in the middle of all of this, I found myself laughing.
Not hysterically.
Just… gently.
Because the zebra didn’t schedule his oxpecker either.
Interruptions do not ask permission.
Laughter Does Not Cancel the Hard
The hippo made me laugh.
The dentist chair was absurd enough to survive with humor.
But not everything is held that way.
There are parts of this season that do not respond to wit.
And I do not try to make them.
There is nothing funny about my daughter losing her hair faster this second round of chemo…
There is nothing light about watching someone you love try to hold onto something that has always made her feel beautiful.
This season is not amusing.
It is raw.
It is watching strands fall where certainty used to live.
It is wanting to bargain with a body that is busy fighting something far more serious than vanity.
She is not laughing right now.
And I am not laughing at this.
Most days, if I am honest, I feel closer to tears than laughter.
But laughter has a way of finding me anyway.
Not because I go looking for it.
Because it slips in sideways.
The gardener sends me a WhatsApp after I tell him I went ahead and planted the vegetables myself.
“Are you taking my job?” he writes — followed by an unreasonable number of laughing emojis.
And I laugh.
Not because everything is fine.
But because someone, somewhere, thinks I am capable of agricultural rebellion.
Fritzy performs his morning contortions — stretching, twisting, collapsing with dramatic precision — making sure we do not miss any of the “important scratch locations.”
He does not request affection.
He demands it.
With choreography.
And I laugh.
Because the seriousness of the world cannot compete with a cat who treats back scratches as a constitutional right.
Laughter, in this space, is not hers to carry.
It is mine.
It is the small thing that keeps me from tightening.
When you stand beside pain long enough, you discover something unexpected:
Laughter often belongs to the one who must remain steady.
Not loud laughter.
Not denial.
Just small releases.
I laugh at my own attempts to control outcomes — as though I have been quietly appointed Assistant Director of the Universe.
I laugh at the idea that I can manage chemo schedules, Florida logistics, a dead tooth, and a rescheduled knee replacement with enough positive thinking and a color-coded planner.
The dentist says, “Open wide.”
Life says, “Just one more thing.”
And I find myself thinking,
“Well. Apparently we’re doing this too.”
The laughter does not cancel the ache.
It makes space around it.
It keeps my heart from becoming brittle.
It is oxygen.
It is the oxpecker perched near the eye of something enormous — not removing the weight, just tending to the parasites of panic.
There are moments when I want to be the zebra — solid, unshakeable.
But perhaps strength is not granite.
Perhaps strength is elasticity.
A quiet smile when something ridiculous happens.
A gentle exhale when I catch myself spiraling.
A willingness to plant vegetables badly and accept emoji judgment.
If mascara runs — literal or metaphorical — it simply means I am still tender.
And tenderness is not weakness.
It is love refusing to shut down.
The Work Laughter Is Quietly Doing
There is a reason laughter keeps finding me.
Not because life is easy.
But because without it, my heart would harden.
Pain has a way of narrowing vision. It pulls everything tight. It makes the world smaller. Quieter. Heavier.
Laughter does the opposite.
It widens.
It lets a little air back in.
It reminds me that this moment — however difficult — is not the entire story.
The zebra does not stop being strong because the oxpecker lands near his eye.
He simply makes room.
Perhaps that is what laughter is.
Not an escape from pain.
But room around it.
Room to breathe.
Room to keep loving.
Room to remain human.
Because when life feels like a series of medical appointments and difficult phone calls, laughter becomes less about amusement and more about elasticity.
It keeps the soul from cracking.
It keeps tenderness alive.
And sometimes it arrives in ridiculous ways — through emojis, dramatic cats, and gardeners who suspect I’m staging a vegetable coup.
There is something disarming about a zebra mid-bray — mouth open, teeth visible, dignity temporarily suspended.
It is not composed.
It is not curated.
It is alive.
In a season that has felt heavy — medical appointments, chemo rounds, shifting plans — this image feels like permission.
Permission to laugh loudly.
Permission to look slightly ridiculous.
Permission to let joy interrupt seriousness.
Laughter does not require everything to be resolved.
Sometimes it simply bursts forward — wide-mouthed and unfiltered — reminding us that even in dark seasons, life still insists on being lived.
Three Ways to Invite Laughter Into the Room
(A Laughter That Pecks at Your Sadness)
Not loud laughter.
Not performative laughter.
Just the kind that slips in and pecks gently at the heaviness — the way the oxpecker tends the zebra.
Small.
Persistent.
Unintimidated by size.
Here are three ways I am learning to let it in.
1. Leave the Door Slightly Open
You do not have to chase laughter.
In fact, it seems to dislike being hunted.
But you can leave the door open.
Answer the gardener’s text.
Notice the emoji excess.
Allow yourself to smile when the cat performs interpretive stretching.
Laughter often arrives disguised as interruption.
Let it perch.
2. Laugh at Your Illusion of Control
There is something quietly comical about the way I try to manage life.
I make plans.
Life adds footnotes.
I schedule surgery.
A tooth raises its hand and says, “Excuse me.”
I imagine I am directing events.
Meanwhile, the script keeps rewriting itself.
Sometimes laughter comes from seeing my own seriousness and gently whispering,
“Oh sweetheart… you were never in charge of the weather.”
Not in a mocking way.
In a merciful way.
3. Let Something Ridiculous Be Enough
The world is heavy.
Your heart may be heavy.
Do not wait for circumstances to lighten before allowing laughter.
Let a dramatic cat be sufficient.
Let a crooked scarf be sufficient.
Let a hippo-sized yawn in the dentist chair be sufficient.
Laughter does not have to solve the problem.
It just has to peck at it.
A small tap against the sadness.
A reminder that your heart is still alive.
Because that is what laughter does.
It does not remove the weight.
It tends to it.
It keeps your spirit from becoming sealed shut.
It says:
“You may not control the stripes.
But you can allow the bird.”
Laughter Is Not a Betrayal
I feel guilty when things are good for me.
When I laugh easily.
When a moment feels light.
When the sun warms the garden and I forget — even briefly — how heavy this season is.
There is a quiet voice that rises inside me and asks,
“How can you enjoy this right now?”
As though joy must wait for permission.
As though laughter should stand respectfully outside the door until chemo is finished, until surgeries are behind us, until life settles into something predictable again.
But laughter is not a betrayal.
It does not dishonor suffering.
It does not diminish love.
When my daughter is fighting with everything she has, my laughter does not mean I care less.
It means I am breathing.
Grief and joy are not opposites.
They sit beside each other.
They share the same chair.
And I am beginning to understand something that feels almost counterintuitive:
When I allow myself small laughter — the gardener’s emojis, Fritzy’s morning acrobatics, the absurdity of dental plot twists — I become steadier.
Less brittle.
More able to stay open.
It is difficult for Mr. P when I sink deeply into sadness. I see it in his quiet concern. He wants to fix what cannot be fixed. He wants to lift what feels immovable.
When I let laughter peck gently at the heaviness, I am not escaping reality.
I am strengthening my capacity to remain present inside it.
Laughter does not remove the ache.
It loosens it.
It keeps my heart from tightening into something hard.
And when my heart stays soft, I can be there more fully.
More patient on the phone.
More present in conversation.
More steady when my daughter needs calm instead of collapse.
If I refused every small moment of light, I would eventually have nothing left to offer.
But when I let joy in — even briefly — I discover I have more elasticity.
More tenderness.
More strength to sit beside her without unraveling.
Laughter, in this season, is not frivolous.
It is maintenance.
It is the oxpecker tending the great weight.
It keeps love alive.
And love — not guilt — is what she needs from me.
We Are Here to Love
When I look back over this week — the dental chairs, the rescheduled surgery, the chemo rounds, the WhatsApp jokes, the cat contortions — I see stripes.
Dark.
Light.
Dark.
Light.
Life does not arrange itself in tidy blocks.
It weaves.
And somewhere in that weaving, laughter keeps appearing.
Not as disrespect.
Not as denial.
But as tending.
The oxpecker does not remove the weight of the zebra.
It simply keeps him well enough to carry it.
Perhaps that is what laughter does for us.
It keeps the heart well enough to keep loving.
Because that is what we are here for.
Not to control outcomes.
Not to eliminate sorrow.
Not to perfect the schedule.
We are here to love those around us.
To sit beside them.
To stay soft.
To remain open.
Sometimes loving looks like tears.
Sometimes it looks like holding silence.
And sometimes — unexpectedly — it looks like laughing at a cat who insists on constitutional back scratches or a zebra who cannot contain his joy.
If laughter makes it easier for me to stay present…
If it keeps my heart from hardening…
If it allows me to show up steadier for my daughter and kinder with Mr. P…
Then it is not wrong.
It is faithful.
It is rebellion of the heart.
It is choosing to stay alive in the middle of what feels unbearable.
And if I must open wide — like the hippo, like the zebra — and let both sorrow and laughter exist in the same mouth…
Then perhaps that is simply what being human looks like.
We are here to love.
And sometimes loving requires that we let joy peck gently at our sadness — so that we have enough light left to give away.
With love,
Renée ❣️
