As I went to bed last night I realized that on Day 2 of my 365 day challenge to notice joy... I hadn't come here to write this down.
There's a metaphor in there that is so blindingly obvious that I want to cross it out and start with something less ridiculous, but instead I'm going to shrug and say, "well, I showed up, so that still counts."
So, here's thoughts from last night:
I'm still fighting the omicron that's not omicron (have those symptoms, feeling fatigued, but testing negative on home tests?) so today I noticed that joy can be quiet. Sometimes joy isn't dancing in the kitchen with wild abandon, but the joy is there none-the-less.
Yesterday's nourishing joy looked like wearing a soft sweater and warm socks, curling up on the sofa with a favorite mug containing a favorite tea with lemon and honey, reading a book, Chance at my feet and ever loyal. It looked like receiving a postcard from my daughter and remembering that though she might be away at college and making her own way, we still have a heart connection and our love is unshakable.
Yesterday's nourishing joy also looked like nourishment itself. I'd been eating all kinds of random things this past week, unenergetic and uninspired, but yesterday I decided to make veggies bourguignon and mashed potatoes. Pulling the vegetables out of the drawer, and setting up my kitchen island with the cutting board and my favorite chef's knife, mis en place, everything in its place, is a wonderful feeling. About a year or two ago I bought an enameled cast iron braiser in a lovely night-sky blue, and cooking in it is a treat: wonderful brown bits form under the onions, garlic, and mushrooms, and it's so sturdy and made to last for generations that I swear that food cooked in it tastes better. Taking this time to take care of myself - because surely a dish made with onions, mushrooms, carrots, cauliflower, and parsnips must be healing - made me feel much better, even if I do keep sneezing.
And yesterday's noticing joy was so much about my home. My house is like a living, breathing creature that wraps me in its embrace, offers me comfort that I couldn't dream of asking for. The cozy sofa with a blanket close by, a stack of books within reach. Big windows where I could look out and see fog in the big cedar tree outside. A cupboard so stocked with food that I could be sick for a couple more weeks and certainly not starve. Light streaming through the windows, and the sound of foghorns (so soothing) drifting inside. In the past few years I've gotten really into houseplants, and my living and dining rooms are bursting with their green life, and I really do think that they make the space feel different. The art on my walls isn't fancy, but each piece is hand selected and meaningful to me - the landscapes are places I love. There are little silver-toned frames with pictures tucked everywhere, mostly of Tessa, reminding me of shared times.
My house has been a constant in my life for twenty years now. There are marks on the doorway to the basement where the baby gate was once affixed; there's a scratch on the bottom of a door where Chance once protested being locked in a room. The furniture is mostly hand-me down, and this used to bother me so much, but I'm embracing it now. "Grandpa's bookcase" is my favorite: my beloved grandfather left it to me, and it takes center stage in my home, its carving and glass front doors making it beautiful, but its family connection making it priceless. Other pieces aren't so fancy: the chairs passed down by a college roommate when she upgraded her set, the kitchen table from Buy Nothing, the side table from one neighbor, the sofas from another. Almost everything has a story, and it's a hodge-podge collection that feels rich in history and friendship. I might be biased, but I think it all somehow fits together, a hand curated selection that is interesting, thoughtful, warm. When new friends visit, they always tell me "your home feels great!" and old friends return here over and over again, comfortable in my home's comfort. Many of my friends have fancier things, and I may be biased, but I think the coziness of my home makes it the go-to spot even though it isn't as stylish as some.
One of the dining room chairs has scratches underneath it where Tessa's booster seat used to sit. Those scratches - deep and worn - upset me when I first discovered them (I really love those solid wood chairs, how could I be so foolish as to let this happen?!), but now I'm pretty sure that's my favorite chair of the set. The marks are reminders of sitting at the table, Tessa's soft wispy gold curls framing her big blue eyes, talking endlessly of ponies and horses.
I've been listening to a lot of records lately, and they are bringing me so much joy. Having to stop and turn them over makes me really commit to listening to the music, and there is something so connected with touching the album, noticing the artwork, choosing which side to listen to. Raising the arm to place it softly on the outer groove, and that soft crackle before the music begins, is a meditative moment where the almost-silence is a calm thrill.
The fog is still here today, and the world seems quieter. I've been sick almost a week, and the isolation - on top of nearly two years of Covid - could be awful, but instead I'm trying to root myself deeper into the fallow field, ready to emerge from sickness, a global pandemic, and the ups and downs of life stronger than I went in. I'm not sure that I'm succeeding with that just yet (there is no joy in dishonesty, and I think being truthful with myself is a goodness that has its own hopeful joy), but I'm trying.
I'm looking forward to healthy days when the world and I can embrace again, fearlessly and with abandon. But while I wait for those days, I'm finding the quiet joys of my life, nourishing me. Today I'm a day late, and I don't have a grand adventure to share, and the belly laughs are yet to come, but I'm here, and I'm grateful for that. Quiet joy is still joy.
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