the definition of joy
/My oldest friend Elayne, my so-called “positive partner,” and I continue to hope. We’re determined to look at the bright side of things, even if we need to make ourselves miserable to do it. One of our projects toward that end is “joy journals,” the kind of thing you did when you were thirteen years old, which is when we met, and the kind of thing you forget about after thirteen when you have joy nailed down. Which we don’t.
So we continue to work on a grown-up definition of this easy-to-toss around word that means different things to different people and different things in different cultures, perhaps, and different things one day to the next and different things even minute to minute. I’ve been so curious about the proper way to explain this fleeting yet enviable goal, this ephemeral thing, I’ve found myself in a state of constant expectation, waiting for joy to bump me in the night.
Am I feeling joy now? Is this it? Am I doing it right?
When I was a little girl, my mother would cut a thick wheel of ripe pineapple, wrap it in a napkin, and sit me on the front stoop to watch the world go by. I still eat pineapple that way today and get the same burst of—what?—peace, glee, absorption?
I eat a slice and think, Is this joy?
Or maybe joy is the sense of wonder when I step outside the back door and spy a hawk soaring on the wind, and my breath stops. Is that joy? Does joy make you kick up your heels, or is it satisfaction in the everyday?
And whatever it is, how in the world do we get more of it?
Lots of questions, fewer answers.
As Elayne and I pushed closer to the truth, we looked up the official definition of joy while chatting over FaceTime. We were not sitting in her bedroom cleaning her closets like we did decades ago. Disappointing. Instead, we opened a few books, put our virtual heads together, and decided on “extreme happiness.” Then we realized we wanted it with extreme greediness. The journals began. The idea was to identify joy, own it, expand it.
The next day, I sat in my car in a crowded parking lot, ready to begin a hike. The temperature was crisp yet warm, lovely. But I was inside my hot car wondering how to get what might be waiting on the other side of the window. Was joy out there? I stayed in the car and pondered. The humor didn’t escape me. I laughed. Was that joy?
In yoga philosophy, the word for joy is contentment or santosha, something I once thought was an excuse for not getting what we truly want. Maybe it’s still true. Santosha is the ability to stay centered even if the pineapple isn’t sweet, if the swooping eagle is a crow eating the trash. It’s not about achieving or acquiring. Most say it’s about living in the present moment, without fear of the future or regret for the past.
Those moments, so rare, are said to last a lifetime, while the others quickly fade and disappear.
Later that day, I took out The Book of Positive Quotations, compiled by John Cook, and found a full forty pages on happiness, more than on hope, courage, success, every other topic. The adult search for happiness beats all.
I found this one: “Joy is the feeling of grinning on the inside,” from author Melba Colgrove. And this from journalist Holbrook Jackson: “Those who seek happiness miss it, and those who discuss it, lack it.” Caught! And this simple one from the ancient philosopher Seneca: “Learn how to feel joy.”
I picked up my journal to see what I’d written so far, getting ready to share with Elayne:
Swimming alone in a pool
Hiking in the mountains
Helping a friend find peace at a tough time
Watching a tiny bird flutter on a tree limb
Getting into bed early to read
Having time and space without commitments
I closed the journal, realizing I’d loved these things forever.
Outside, the sun was shining. I sliced a thick wheel of pineapple like Mom used to do for me, wrapped it in a napkin, and went out to watch the world go by. It made me feel good, that was all I knew for sure.
So much for growing up . . .