I want to be clear, and honest: many days are not joyful. That is, many days are not filled with joy. Today was a good day—Garner and I spent some time with friends we love, it was sunny, and I went for a run—but it was not a joyful one.
Right now, it feels like much of our country—our world—is breaking apart into jagged, ugly pieces. Putting the global pandemic, and all that it has ruined, and all that it has called into question, to the side for a moment, I will say these names out loud: Breonna Taylor. Ahmaud Arbery. George Floyd....there are so many, too many others.
Never before have I felt such an oppressive sense of combined anger, guilt, powerlessness, hopelessness, and grief. Our country’s leader, a leader in name only, makes a daily habit of heaping extra worry onto the already heavy burdens we are bearing—as a nation, as a human race—and I feel the opposite of joy because of it.
And yet, I think especially because I’ve been practicing, I can still locate the bright spots, even on darker days; I’m convinced that each of my days holds at least one happy moment, a fortunate truth for which I am very, very grateful. Often, I’ve noticed, joy resides in things familiar, like a friend’s voice or a favorite dinner, and once found, joy serves as anchor, beacon, and safe harbor—all in one—and gives me rest.
There is a short stretch of quiet road, just after I’ve made the turnaround at the the stop sign where Oddfellows Road meets Pleasant Beach Drive, and where, due to some magical confluence of shade and sun and fir needles and earth, it always smells like pine. When I ran the route today—a route I’ve run at least a hundred times, I turned my way toward home and, seeking comfort, took a big breath in and waited. The scent met me there—strong, fresh, reliable—and I found my joy in that sweet, familiar thing.
Today, the familiar scent of fir trees is my joy. #joyinplace
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