Joy
Let a joy keep you.
Reach out your hands
And take it when it runs by. . . .
Carl Sandburg
What a frightening, discouraging year. We hoped—on many fronts: that the vaccine would bring us normality; that our country might return to sanity and caring; that we might escape Mother Nature’s worse impulses. We’ve lived, instead, with Covid’s daily dangers; with the Big Lie and its deadly spinoffs; with a relentlessly warming planet—defined by smoke and fire and water and wind. And we tuck in each night knowing that so many beings on this planet are hungry, homeless, hopeless.
And still, I lived in the light and grace of daily joys. For which I am humbled–thankful.
- There was eight-year-old Ella’s stay with me this summer. Among a dozen other quirky and magical moments, Ella’s cocktail dress-up strut.
- Gatherings with her whole family as Amanda and Matt and their brood moved to Choteau, Montana.
- The moment when I could buzz home in my newly-repaired 2004 Toyota after juggling three faulty cars, one granddaughter, dense smoke, and 100 degree heat.
- A wind-whipped trip through the Gates of the Mountains with Emily, Memo, and Mattie.
- Doig Days with Carol. The Dupuyer ladies orchestrated an especially creative and welcoming community “Stormy Weather” birthday party/commemoration for Ivan.
- Evening visits with friends on the porch as the mountains turned lavender.
- The arrival of a functioning refrigerator after six weeks without. In time for a few root beer floats.
- Gathering tomatoes and harvesting basil.
- Falling asleep with Simon cuddled close.
- Returning to Bryan and Jean’s green and peaceful Sussex lanes.
- And sharing the Ionian island of Zakynthos with them as well: gnarled olive trees; turtle harbor; blue-green, sun-radiant water; history; and spectacular food. A 75th birthday extravaganza!
- Turning magazine pictures into cards—Xacto knife, rubber cement, and paper cutter at hand. Simple crafts within my skill range!
- And, of course, reading.
Relentlessly reading! More than ever! Great books and cheesy ones. I’ll remember and recommend these: Isabelle Wilkerson’s Caste; Stephanie Land’s Maid; Jessica Bruder’s Nomadland; Glendy Vanderah’s Where the Forest Meets the Stars; Jan Morris’ A Thought Diary and Thinking Again; Brian Doyle’s Chicago and One Long River of Song; Amor Towles’ The Lincoln Highway. And the work of incredible Montana writers: Malcolm Brooks’ Painted Horses and Cloudmaker; Callan Wink, August; Pete Fromm’s A Job You Mostly Won’t Know How to Do; and all of Craig Lancaster’s books, especially And It Will Be A Beautiful Life.
Writing too! Adding essays to the web site I created in our first Covid year. And organizing many into a book. Drawing on memory and place, and once in a while, pure opinion!
http://stilllearninghowtofly.com/
So, here toward the end of a year that often left us hopeless, I wish you joy–of the every-day kind: the stuff of clear skies and easy laughter and adoring pets; warm casseroles on cold nights; handwritten letters in your mailbox; books too good to be closed at bedtime; hugs when you need them the most.
“All you can do is face the world with quiet grace and
hope you make a sliver of difference…
You must trust that you being the best possible you matters somehow…
That being an attentive and generous friend and citizen
will prevent a thread or two of the social fabric from unraveling. . . .”
“We’re here for a little window. And to use that time to catch and share
shards of light and laughter and grace seems to me the great story.”
Both from Brian Doyle’s exquisite One Long River of Song
