Y'all Come Sit a Spell

Come sit a spell.
It’s quieter on the porch today.
We’ve lost some people recently who made the world feel a little more colorful, and I’ve been trying to figure out why certain losses seem to hit differently.
We lose talented people all the time.
Actors. Musicians. Artists. Writers. People whose work has been woven into our lives for so long that we don’t remember when we first knew their names.
Their deaths are sad, certainly.
But every once in a while, we lose someone and it feels like we’ve lost more than their talent.
We’ve lost a little joy.
You know the people I mean.
The ones who seemed genuinely delighted to be here.
They weren’t necessarily the loudest people in the room, although sometimes they absolutely were. They weren’t perfect. They didn’t need to be.
There was just something about them that said:
This is who I am. I rather like being me. And I’m going to enjoy the hell out of this while I’m here.
There is something wonderfully rebellious about that.
Because somewhere along the way, most of us learn to edit ourselves.
Don’t laugh quite that loudly.
Don’t wear that.
Don’t be too excited.
Don’t care too much.
Don’t be silly.
Don’t be sentimental.
Don’t take up too much room.
Don’t let people see how much you love something because, God forbid, they might think you’re ridiculous.
So we sand down our edges a little.
We become more appropriate.
More measured.
More careful.
And perhaps a little less interesting.
That’s why people who refuse to do that are so damn refreshing.
They remind us that enthusiasm isn’t embarrassing.
That delight isn’t childish.
That being completely, unmistakably yourself can be its own kind of generosity.
You don’t have to know someone personally to receive that gift from them.
Maybe they made you laugh.
Maybe they sang something that lived with you for thirty years.
Maybe they were gloriously eccentric.
Maybe they walked into a room wearing something nobody else on Earth would have considered wearing and somehow made you wonder why the rest of us were dressed so boringly.
Maybe they simply seemed to wake up every morning thinking being alive was a pretty interesting proposition.
And then they’re gone.
The world continues, of course.
It always does.
But it feels just a little less sparkly.
I think that’s what I’ve been mourning.
Not celebrity.
Not nostalgia.
Joy.
The particular kind that comes from people who were unapologetically themselves and seemed genuinely enthusiastic about the business of living.
We need those people.
Maybe more than we realize.
And perhaps the best thing we can do when one of them leaves is resist the temptation to simply admire what made them special.
Maybe we borrow a little of it.
Wear the ridiculous earrings.
Sing too loudly.
Order dessert.
Plant the flowers.
Take the trip.
Make the thing.
Tell somebody you love them.
Laugh until you snort.
Get excited about something that absolutely nobody else understands.
Be interested.
Be curious.
Be delighted.
Take up a little room.
Because there will always be enough seriousness in the world.
There will always be enough careful.
There will always be enough people reminding us to behave appropriately.
What seems to be in shorter supply are people who make the rest of us remember that being alive can be fun.
And when we lose one of those people, the world really does lose a little joy.
So maybe today, we make some of our own.