meaning in joy

BANG BANG BANG. Battle knocking at his door to get up and greet the day. I jumped out of bed with a surge of joy to see him, Margaret, toddling behind, both of them still in their sleep sacks.

Sleep sacks off, and Margaret put her little feet into Andy’s big flip flops, getting the leather thong between the wrong toes and reaching for my hand to try walking. Another physical tingling of pleasure in my shoulders and head at the sight of that little foot in that big shoe, the trusting hand in mine.

On top of all that pleasure, it was a warm morning and the kids were dancing in their swimsuits, ready to go outside and play in the hose as I left for work. Daffodils and Douglas irises blooming, lots of baby blue eyes on the hillside.

These moments of intense happiness used to come upon me once or twice a year. Since having children, once or twice a day. (Ditto for the fits of rage...)

It’s hard to write about these moments, though. Rage is the stuff of comedy, drama, tragedy. But joy?

Richard and Donna came for dinner and played jump on the mattress after. Learning to jump. Learning what the body can do. What it feels like to get a little boost from the mattress on the floor up to the bed, what it feels like to fly through the air just a little. Ecstatic squeals.

The next morning Richard and I talked for an hour about how that kind of exuberance needs a witness, but defies words. So hard to make it meaningful. Because it is its own reward; you don’t need to find compensation for pleasure.

Maybe that's why writers spin this gold into lead. NPR did it to me just this morning--read this to me on my way into work:

Lines Written in Early Spring
by William Wordsworth

I heard a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sate reclined, 

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to the mind.



To her fair works did nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think 

What man has made of man.



Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And 'tis my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.



The birds around me hopped and played:

Their thoughts I cannot measure,

But the least motion which they made,

It seemed a thrill of pleasure.



The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.



If this belief from heaven be sent,

If such be Nature's holy plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

The pleasant thoughts don’t have to turn to sad ones. People do joyful things to and for each other all the time.

My goal is to find meaning in joy. We look too much to suffering for meaning.