My friend Sheila has a show on KZUM called "The Joy Factor." It's a jewel of a show, each week highlighting someone who has (GASP!) found joy in his or her life. I don't catch it each week, but I am comforted to know that there are just enough joyful people in Lincoln to keep the show going.
Sometimes, I think the word "joy" embarrasses Americans, as though there is something wrong with us if we don't feel bad. Or complicated. Or busy. Or overwhelmed.
Seriously, how stupid is that?
Today, I am wrapping up one of my most joyful summers ever (yeah, I said ever) and a part of me realizes that some folks might consider such an admission to be quaint and naive. I would like to propose an alternative theory--namely, that the people who bypass joy for something that feels heavier and more serious may very well be the naive ones.
We've had some great evening skies this summer, skies that are jaw-droppingly beautiful for those lucky enough to have caught their fifteen-minute display. Whenever I've found myself outside during one of these celestial events, a part of my brain feels pity towards those who are staring at a screen or a pile of papers rather than the sky just outside their doors.
It is good--very good--to be awed by nature. In fact, I would say that it is the best of all possible ways to be put in our place, to be reminded that we are not the be-all-end-all of anything, really.
Maybe it's this humility that has made my summer so magical--the realization that there are a billion systems and microbes and moments that do not care about me in the least and yet they anchor me to this life that is so stunning, so beautiful, so ever-changing, even when I look into the mirror and wonder if I have changed at all in the last 51 years.
Joy is not for the faint-hearted.
I hope I never grow too afraid to accept a sliver of it here and there.
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