Find ecstasy in life; the mere sense of living is joy enough. – Emily Dickinson
As I walked around some neighborhoods last night, looking at the holiday lights people had strung up with such care and attention, I noticed one message again and again: joy.
I know joy as the place of bursting with happiness, with pleasure, with a feeling I can only describe as warmth that expands with each breath.
A feeling that I know I want, even need, but dismiss.
For more ‘important’ things.
What is the point of joy when the world is burning?
Why do I deserve joy when so many suffer?
How can I prioritize my joy when there are things to be done that are serious and that have been on my To Do list forever? Can’t I just ‘do’ joy later?
Absolutely not.
Do joy now.
Joy can hold your hand when you are pulled in other directions.
Joy will call your name when the night is too dark and too quiet.
Joy is the magick of all of your seasons.
Joy is Already Here
It can be difficult to see joy in the current vision of the world. Perhaps it is easier to see on some days. Perhaps you can feel it on other days. Perhaps you can understand its existence because things happen to prove it to you again and again.
Maybe you can keep a gratitude journal. Maybe you can see evidence of things sparking joy and reminding you of good things.
But that’s not quite the way to go, I’m realizing.
When I attach an event to my experience of joy, I begin to require something to happen for me to feel better. For me to know joy exists.
What if it were possible to hold joy as a mist that envelops the world? It’s there and we can access it because we are here. It is not a thing to be cultivated, but a feeling to be remembered and pulled closer.
Joy is not a conversation of worth or timing.
You can experience multitudes. You can know joy and anger on the same day. You might fall down in your despair and look up at the sky to see the most perfect cloud remind you of joy.
This is not an either-or situation. Joy is now. Joy is seeking to be found and remembered.
Joy and Hope are Old Friends
I can’t tell you what brings you joy or will be the thing that reminds you to come back to this place. But I can tell you that you know. It might take a deep breath. It might take turning away from the screen or the conversation. It might require you to dash into the forest or close your eyes and find yourself away.
It might take a stretch that cracks your chest and startles you back to the present moment.
Startles you back with the realization you were closed in on yourself. Because it feels better to be sheltered than surrender. Because it will always feel better to tap into what you know than to widen into what you haven’t been able to count on.
And yet, this is where hope will meet you. Hope is the bedraggled friend, the one who has seen too much, and knows too much — and keeps going. Hope will meet you when you call back your joy.
And hope will take your hand and let you know: I know where we go next.
No holiday lights needed.
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