A handful of small madnesses

I have a handful of small madnesses. To other people they may appear to be good choices, or mistakes, or moments of life, which have passed me by. Or moments, which have grabbed on to me so strongly, never releasing their grasp. 

They are small madnesses, and we all live with them. They are intrinsic; it is not possible to peel them away from who we are. And they are different for everyone.

My handful of madnesses include – opening myself up to several varieties of love, being soft, the way the moon makes me feel, the grip of past love, the irrational dreamy view of every future day, and the stubborn persistence of living in the moment.

Her handful of madnesses are, in no specific order - the way she cuts the broccoli florets diagonally instead of vertically, how she stares at the door waiting for him to come home, her seven pairs of sheepswool slippers, a Japanese mattress, and the vodka that she feeds her thriving geranium.

His handful of madnesses – he never fully lets go into his feelings, and so many lovers have passed him by. He must iron his socks. He has a yellow rubber ducky in his bathtub. Every now and again, he winks at himself in the mirror, when he walks by, to boost his confidence. He has never told anyone about how his mother left him when he was three years old.

Hers – she goes to the opera to transport her to another world, it never fails to lift her spirits. Secretly, she dances the jig in her kitchen when no one is watching. Her daughter is the spitting image of her grandmother, and it makes her cry almost every day.

His- he prefers molasses to honey in his tea. He must walk through central park once a week, or he cannot perform well at work. He is in love with the woman who serves him coffee every morning at the café. He has watched every dance movie ever made, and every night dreams about enrolling in a dance class, but he has not yet gathered enough courage.

All these madnesses endear us to each other.

Without them, we would be bland and uniform. Without diversity and quirks, this world of humans would be unimpressive. These little madnesses mark us apart from one another, and make us soft towards one another. They show us that we are all made of the same human cloth. They are essential. Madness is a misleading word. It could be replaced with magic, gift, marker, or message – anything really.

I carry my small handful of madnesses close to my heart. They are dear to me. And I find I collect more and more as I go. Sometimes I change out some old ones and acquire some new ones. Sometimes I hold on to a small madness for a decade or more.

These madnesses are like the string, which attaches us all together. If we do not feel connected to other humans, it is hard to love them.