Laugh therapypublished: 2010-06-21
Every morning, I bike through the park. I drop my son off at school and on the way back they’re there: the laughs. They rise up from beneath two trees next to a pond. Whoops of laughter in different tones, almost like a symphony.
On nearing the trees, the people who produce the laughs become visible. They lay on their backs and laugh upwards, to the skies. Their knees are bent and often one leg is crossed over the other. The bodies are tense as it takes effort to produce such volume.
The age? Fifty and older. Lots of greys.
I stop one day to watch them. From up close the laughs sound forced, unnatural. A battle of volume. Of noise. Their laughter does not come from a place of intimacy, of shared joy, of connection. It comes from desperacy. I miss the gentle whistle of birds.