Laughing Down the Moon (2 page)

In the locker room, the stinging glow left by the hot shower encouraged me to bundle up before facing the gray November chill. I hummed a bit of a Kings of Leon song as I packed my limp gym clothes into my bag and donned the usual—a smart black pencil skirt, an amber long-sleeved T-shirt and an amber bead necklace. I dried off on a butt-sized length of locker room bench and then sat to pull on chunky, woolen knee-high socks and my black cowboy boots. Most days this was my chosen uniform for living. Though the colors of the shirt and beads often changed, the skirt and cowboy boots were almost a given. To finish the ritual of dressing, I anointed each wrist with lavender oil. I didn’t look in the mirror as I left because my hair rarely acted up. I knew what I’d see if I did look in the mirror. Elbow-length straight brown hair with eyebrow grazing bangs, brown almond-shaped eyes, wide cheekbones, decently rosy lips and a smattering of big freckles. The freckles were the only things that gave away the fact that I was Irish as well as Japanese.

As I left the Y, I said goodbye to the girl behind the desk and pulled my cell phone from the outer pocket of my gym bag to check the time. Ten thirty. I tucked it back in the pocket, just to have to yank it out again as it began an incessant buzzing, informing me I had six texts waiting for me. Five were from Patrick and the other was from my younger sister, Falina. I turned the ringtone back on and read the texts in order starting with the earliest.

“Shoot canceled! Will c u at the club for yoga!” That was Patrick at eight-oh-four a.m. Patrick was a photographer.

“Let’s meet prior?” Patrick again, eight-ten a.m. Since it was Saturday morning, I had silenced my phone in order to sleep in before the nine o’clock class. I didn’t even think to check the phone prior to class. Patrick must have decided not to go to yoga since I never returned the text.

“Waiting at 9
^th
St entrance,” wrote Patrick at eight forty-five.

What the hell? Ninth Street? The Y was on Blaisdell Avenue, just a few blocks from my home. Ninth Street would be…oh my Goddess. Ninth Street would mean Patrick was at the Downtown YMCA. I was at the Uptown Y.

“Going in. C u inside?” Patrick at eight-fifty.

“LOL! What a riot. I LOVE laugh yoga. Missed you!” Patrick ten minutes ago.

An uncomfortable heat rose up my neck and splashed across my cheeks. I squeezed my eyes shut. Oh. My. Goddess. I clenched my teeth as tightly as I was clenching my eyes. Was I going to be sick, right here on the sidewalk? I heard the whoosh-click of the Y’s door behind me and forced myself to breathe in and open my eyes. Two people made conversation as they walked away from the club’s door, away from me—thank the stars. I jammed my phone into my gym bag pocket without reading the text from Falina and ran nearly all the way home.

I threw my heavy front door open with a force that threatened to shatter the wavy lead glass in its windows, then slammed it shut. Nothing shattered; nothing, that is, except my pride. I whipped my gym bag into the corner of the front room and launched a full-body attack on my favorite piece of furniture. Face-down on the vintage fainting couch, with my forehead pressed to the red crushed velvet, I began to replay the non-laugh yoga class that I had, in my stupidity, tried to turn into a laugh yoga session. What the hell must everyone have thought of me? Why didn’t anyone tell me to stop? Did they all think I was crazy? What else could they possibly think? How was I ever going to show my face there again?

U2 belted out “It’s a Beautiful Day” from the pocket of my gym bag letting me know someone, probably Patrick, wanted to talk to me, but I couldn’t bring myself to get up and answer the call. I wasn’t crying, but I was close to it and didn’t feel like keeping things in check for someone on the other end of the phone if the tears did come. The instructor’s “Ssshhh…” echoed in my ears. That had been meant for me—or for the poor soul who’d laughed once with me. Or maybe she had been laughing at me! I let out a huge, shuddery sigh.

I gave in. I had a long cry, wetting the crushed velvet. Perhaps it would be cathartic. Maybe then I’d move on or at least pry myself from the cushions once the tears subsided, but the tears went on for much longer than I expected. I hated that I’d been crying more often lately. I hated that I’d ruined a nice Saturday morning for a bunch of people, but even more, I hated feeling embarrassed. I was also beginning to hate my ringtone as the phone rang again and Bono reminded me how un-beautiful my day had become in comparison to his.

Some time later, I pushed myself up off the fainting couch—how aptly named today—and wiped my eyes and nose with the amber sleeve of my T-shirt. There was a face-sized, dark-red splotch on my couch now. Had anyone else ever had a huge crying jag in that same spot? With vintage furniture, you just never knew. I tried to shake off those shuddering after-cry breaths that made me feel like I was bouncing down a few ladder rungs. I looked around the room and took in the pile of last week’s newspapers, the three mostly empty mismatched coffee cups on the end table, the various papers and pencils scattered about the room and now my abandoned gym bag in the corner. Tidying up—that’s what would make me feel better.

Ever since I had bought the Victorian house ten years ago, nothing made my world seem more right than making the old place feel tidy, warm and colorful. Mickey, my ex, had been a neat-freak, and since she had moved out I had rediscovered my enjoyment of the natural ebb and flow of clutter and cleanliness. This, however, was the first time I had felt like cleaning in a couple of weeks. Things were out of control since I had not been able to motivate myself to organize the evidence of life strewn across the house.

With the classic soundtrack of
Dirty Dancing
coursing through the surround sound, I began creating piles of the notes and mail: these go upstairs to my office, these go into the recycling bin and these go into the homeless pile to be re-sorted later. Before attacking the piles, I prepared a floor wash. Since I identified more with Paganism than any other religion, part of my practice was using herbs from my windowsill garden for healing and charms as well as for eating. Floor washes could be used to ask the Goddess or Mother Earth for help through any number of situations, and I needed help clearing away this funk and negativity. As I picked lavender and sweet basil from the needy windowsill garden, I boiled salt water on the stovetop. Like the rest of the house, the herb plants had been a bit neglected lately. I pinched back the basil and apologized to the rest of the garden. I promised to look after them better than I had been. Just as the water began to boil, I poured it over the herbs I’d picked for the floor wash. I’d let it steep for an hour before straining and using it. The scent was calming, so I breathed deeply over the bowl before addressing the paperwork piles I’d created.

With my arms full of the office-bound debris, I headed up the narrow staircase, noting on the landing halfway up that the window needed cleaning. I’d catch that on the way down. I pushed open the door to my office and felt the familiar dread when I entered the room. There was nothing wrong with the room itself; in fact, it was one of my favorites with its built-in dark wood bookshelves, the oversized window that faced the park across the street, the light wood floor, the heavy desk that sat right in the middle of the room like an invitation, and the dark green swivel chair parked at the desk. It was exactly the room I envisioned as I was going through my master’s degree program for journalism. It was still my ideal place from which to conduct my career, even if the career was no longer ideal. I sighed and set the load of papers and notebooks on the desk. I planted my butt and spun around a few times before stopping the spiraling with my foot against the windowsill.

Despite the gray cold and the post-Halloween sugar hangover most youngsters would be suffering today, a few kids played soccer in the middle of the park, a couple of preteen girls jumped rope and an even younger boy attempted to make some shots at the basketball hoop. I toyed with the amber beads at my neck. The little boy failed time and time again.

I’d dashed right by the park but hadn’t noticed anyone as I fled the laugh yoga crime scene. Now one of the jump rope girls put down her rope, scooted the little boy closer toward the basket and showed him how to hold the ball. She took a shot and made it. The little boy held up his hand to high-five her and then retrieved the ball to try it for himself. I pushed my foot hard against the sill so that I didn’t have to witness his imminent failure. I spun the chair toward the desk and its new pile. Ugh. Watching the kid fail would be better than dealing with that, so I spun back in time to see the ball shimmy through the hoop. It didn’t even hit the rim; it was all net. How do you like that? I attacked the pile of papers.

Book of Shadows

Spell for Dispelling Embarrassment

Cast the circle.

“Blessed be Creatures of Light.”

Light white candles in brass holders to bring protection and love.

“Thank you, paper and pen, for allowing me to cast my negative energy onto you

as I write, thereby freeing myself from the shadows I have created.”

Greet and honor the four directions and the universal elements.

“I’m writing to Mother Earth, God, and Goddess to

request relief from the embarrassing laugh-non-laugh yoga class.

I may have ruined some people’s morning,

and I definitely made my own morning uncomfortable, regardless of how comfortable it was before I knew I was in the wrong place.

I’m asking for assistance in being able to forget about this little incident.

Thank you.”

Written on paper from my desk. Washed in salt water until the words run together.

Soaked in same salt water until softened. Torn into shreds.

“Embarrassment, like this paper, will be shredded.

To ease and comfort, am I now headed.”

Thank the four directions and the universal elements.

“Blessed be Creatures of Light.”

Extinguish candles.

Open the circle.

Chapter Two

All Samhain’s Silent Supper

“You said I needed a few big, deep laughs, but all I got was a melodramatic crying spree on the fainting couch!” I said.

“Yeah, but don’t you feel better?” Patrick asked.

We were sitting on the floor with our elbows on the low oak coffee table in his and Trisha’s living room. Their house was a welcoming arts and crafts bungalow in a friendly neighborhood in south Minneapolis. An abundance of rich colors, gleaming wood and charm surrounded us. I felt at ease here. I listened to the stone fireplace crackle and sizzle as the logs yielded to the flames and heat. I thought about Patrick’s question.

“Yes and no,” I answered. “Honestly, I liked the laugh yoga—I was so into it that I didn’t even realize it wasn’t laugh yoga!” I laughed. “But now, looking back, I feel stupid.”

“Oh, Allura,” Patrick said. He pushed up the sleeves of his gray fleece pullover and patted my arm. I noticed his ears stretch backward under his coppery red hair as he tried not to laugh. “Maybe later we can try it again in the right class,” he pressed his lips together, “but for now, I’d just avoid that YMCA.”

“Definitely,” I said.

“It was cool though,” he continued, “I thought there’d be actual yoga, the kind you need a mat for, but there wasn’t. It was more of an internal yoga thing.”

“Mm-hmm…”

He patted my arm again and said, “You’ll like it.”

Trisha, dressed head to toe in stylish, soft, pale blue denim, entered and set down a tray containing a decanter of red wine, five glasses, a hunk of creamy white cheese and two or three dozen crackers on a plate, two little knives and a king-sized Almond Joy bar. Ah, these were my people. Knowing that the Almond Joy bar was for me, I gave Trisha a look of gratitude. She smiled, the corners of her blue eyes crinkling up like half-closed paper fans. I love Trisha’s face. She has the quintessential pale blond look that just screams Scandinavia. She was glacial ice—in appearance only—whereas Patrick was a glowing ember with his red hair, freckles and strawberry blond eyebrows.

“As soon as Veronica arrives, we’ll start the Silent Supper,” Trisha said. Veronica was a floor manager at a dialysis clinic and was often required to work long hours.

Most Pagans held their Samhain celebrations to honor the dead on October thirty-first, but since Patrick was a devout Catholic, he and I had started a set of traditions decades ago that allowed us both to feel like we were doing the right thing. We used the traditional silent Samhain supper to honor the dead on the November first Catholic holiday of All Saints’ Day. It worked well for Patrick and me; for Veronica, however, it worked a little less well, but she partook each year in our celebrations. Veronica is what I call a hard-core Pagan, whereas I am what I like to refer to as a soft-core Pagan. Call me wishy-washy, but I just think that there is more than one path to the well-being of the soul.

Over the years, Patrick, Veronica and I had culled a hybrid spirituality. We celebrated Solschristice, which was Yule alongside Christmas; Eastara, which was Ostara combined with Easter; and All Samhain, which was Samhain on All Saints’ Day. Recently we’d created Spring Equipassion, which was the Equinox woven into Passion week. Patrick and I had decided in high school that all of these rituals and celebrations had likely originated from the same early practices anyway. As we started to get to know Veronica at university, she began to water down her Pagan ways with our hybrid ones. Trisha, not being given to one religion or path of spirituality, was always a graceful participant in our celebrations. Of course, she had only entered the picture a few years ago and probably knew she’d never change our eclectic ways.

Veronica gusted into the house without knocking. Above her tightly laced Victorian boots, her inky black swing coat swirled. Her dark hair had a row of sister knots, or “sistah knots” when she said it, that framed her face while the rest of her hair sprang delightfully out in all directions. She was just into her forties, but with her chubby cheeks, she looked much younger. The flames roared more brightly in the fireplace from the torrent of fresh air, so Veronica’s entrance was accompanied by the satisfying scent of burning pinewood. Veronica had gift bags, a backpack and a heavy cloak thrown over one arm and a bouquet of homegrown, dried flowers in the other. She must have cut down what was left of her impressive garden in preparation for the winter. I jumped up to unburden at least one of her arms. Patrick did the same. I went for the flowers, and he went for the backpack and the cloak. Veronica, with gift bags still dangling, gave us both hugs and called hello to Trisha who had returned to the kitchen. I placed the dried flowers in the glass vase that stood on the tiny table by the front door. The vase was always there, always ready, for Veronica never arrived without something from her garden.