I’ve learned from battling chronic depression that I need to be very aware of what brings me joy. I hoard joy, because I never know when I may need to be reminded of its presence. And there are so many things that fit into that box on the shelf, like a childhood toy chest that keeps treasures from long ago.
To me, joy is usually a deep content, an upwelling of peace and the sense that everything is right with my world. Those are the quiet moments, which are as simple as they are beautiful: a fresh snowfall on New Year’s Eve; the shine of autumn leaves in a gentle rainstorm; the glitter of water in a large, still lake.
Laughter with friends. Ordering takeout on a night when I’m bone weary. A long, hot, soaking bubble bath. Early morning sunrise, streaks of pink and orange striping the sky like melting sherbet.
What usually comes with these times is a lessening of urgency, of the sense that there are things that have to be done to make things right. It is about allowing myself simply to be, not to constantly do. I haven’t forgotten for a minute that the world is an imperfect place, and that there is a tremendous amount of suffering in it; I’ve just let myself acknowledge for a little while that I’m allowed space for myself, too.
Surrounding myself with certain kinds of things, tangible or not, can help to enhance that sense of joy. Beautiful and moving music can take me there faster than anything else, though it’s not a guarantee; sometimes music tugs so hard at my heart that it shakes loose all the pain of living. Reading can also do either of these. And frankly, it’s all right when it squeezes out the pain instead of the joy, because sometimes I don’t let myself feel enough. Often, I let myself slide over pain and joy both, and lose the joy because I’m afraid to experience the pain.
I seldom have active joy, the kind that makes me laugh in delight and excitement and crow to the world that something has gone wonderfully well. Still, I’m not utterly devoid of it. Those surges of joy light up the darkness like lightning flashes. When I was first asked for a novella from my short story editor, I was profoundly joyful. When my son finally got engaged to his long-time girlfriend, I was ecstatic. When I gave birth to my three children… words may be my trade, but there are no words I can use to fully describe the exultation I felt on bringing those lives into the world. It was when I truly understood that lightning really was hotter than the surface of the sun.
I think those kinds of joys are about accomplishment and love, both of which I struggle to accept.
As a writer, I will sometimes open that box to take out the memory of a treasured joy and lay it like a gem into the setting of my stories. I write a lot about pain and trauma, but it’s important to have those bright moments flash into the darkness, because they remind the characters—and the reader—what their struggles are for. And sometimes I’ll give my characters those brilliant, lightning joys and not take them away, because they give characters and the readers alike something to hope for. Real joy isn’t unadulterated, because life itself isn’t unmixed. I want my stories to have that truth in them, but my box may sometimes be a bit like Pandora’s, and contain hope.
And occasionally I will open that box for myself and take out those memories, setting them on the shelf to polish until they’re glistening, and reminding me that joy is always part of the world, even if I sometimes have trouble recognizing it.
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