Catching joy

Joy is elusive. Even when life is “good,” there can still be things missing, people you loved, things you wish you still had and could still do. But you have to live without them. You have no choice. The losses are a part of you now. You’ve got to learn to grow around them, carry them. You realize that, despite what they say, life is long.

But that is a good thing.

Because even as you must sit with that grief for the rest of your life, you are also granted a lifetime to sit with the good. All the good that you have now – and all that you had then. You don’t have to choose; you get both.

You had simple things back then. Before you’d lost anyone. Walks in the woods, hikes in the rain. Early mornings, late nights. New friends to meet, old trips to retell. Even smaller things, too – hands held, zippers pulled up on coats of tiny, little boys in deep, deep snow. Tree forts, water fights. Sunburned noses, frozen noses. Laughter at the kitchen table, Mom’s recipes, days you could still call her.

You remember all those joys from back then.

You remember the other “stuff” too. The loss, the grief, the disbelief. The big landmark events of your life, marking your calendar, the times when you had to cope, pivot, pray, crawl. Those things matter, oh how they matter, but in between all those was all that.

The good stuff. The tiny, good, everyday stuff. The stuff that makes a life. Even though the hard stuff, the worst stuff, the heartbreaking stuff stands out, they are sandwiched between the tiniest, easiest, best moments. You get to keep those, too.

Even in the grief and the despair and the this isn’t right, you see that the tiny feed of goodness is still there. You start to keep the good stuff up front, first on the shelf. Your joy finds its way, tiny threads of it, thicker and deeper with time, lacing together yesterday and today.

You start to remember the joy, first. You start to look for it, again.

A wild sunrise or a perfectly still snowfall. The kitty dipping her paw in your glass of milk; you letting her. Warm blankets and funny movie lines. A wave from the guy one lane over and you turn to see it’s an old friend. The unexpected touch of grass underfoot when you run out to turn on the hose. Your son walking past you on the couch – too gruff for a hug – but landing a little tap on the top of your head, Hello, Mom.

Later, you slip out on the front deck and sit in the evening sun, the green of summer suddenly everywhere. You collar one or both of your sons to come join you. You tell them to slow down for a minute, and when they groan, you laugh. They settle in; you talk about nothing much.

You remember days like this with your own mother on her own deck – and you feel that everyday joy coming along. You are ready, now, to catch it.