“Man is more himself, man is more manlike, when joy is the fundamental thing in him, and grief the superficial. Melancholy should be an innocent interlude, a tender and fugitive frame of mind; praise should be the permanent pulsation of the soul.”
~ G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy
I watch the sweat bead along the turquoise tumbler. Pebble ice melts into the blueberry lemonade and the cold sweetness is delicious on my tongue. The glass is cool in my grasp. My thumb traces the raised beaded pattern arranged in circles on the drinkware. I lean into the comfort of the Adirondack and listen to the sounds of summer. A lovely symphony. Water arches in a rainbow spray across the yard, cicadas sing-song, and the rumble of the tractor engine floats across the field. Daisy arches her back by the gate to the secret garden while her kittens wrestle nearby. The hiss of water pulses as the dripline carries it to the thirsty hydrangeas.
My reading glasses on my head now, I’ve paused. I’m pondering the words by G. K. Chesterton.
What does it look like for joy to be the fundamental thing? The mooring I’ve attached to?
There are boat slips for grief, for melancholy, for questions, but only temporary parking places. They come at times, but they don’t get to reside. They have a good and rightful place, but they are not where we will abide.
If praise is to be the permanent pulsation of my soul what are my practices going to look like? My framework? What makes up my mooring? What will shape me well? Stand strong when doubtstorms swell?
If I am going to give more time to what is good and true and beautiful and let my focus on the angst and anxiety and anger be fleeting, what do I need in my life?
Who do I need? How will I spend my time?
What will I input into my mind?
What will I give my attention to?
I think about our local Menards. The aisles and aisle and aisles. The problem isn’t in purchasing supplies, the challenge is in the choice.
Our internal lives are similar. It isn’t a lack of resources or a want for knowledge. It’s in filtering through, filtering out. Find what fills. Fashion furrows for a foundation of a field of fruitful growth.
I’m part Dr. Jekyl/Mr. Hyde.
More than I want to admit.
I’m an optimist. I long for beauty and delight. I want to look at the bright side. I adore Pollyanna and her Glad Game. I love Anne of Green Gables, her ache for all that is wonderful.
I like gratitude lists. I wish to have joy permeate my days. I yearn to encourage and inspire. Have the perfume of happiness waft as the signature scent in my life.
Until I don’t want to.
Until I’m discouraged and depressed, angry and angsty, disillusioned and doubtful, distraught and desperate. Then I scowl at the world, brows drawn together, certain everyone is out to get me. Every other person has life easier, together, better. Things fall in place for them. They have no struggles.
Easy street MUST BE NICE.
I stew with the best of them.
Fume like it’s my birthright.
Show up snarly; surly.
Smile, but there’s a big, bad wolf lurking behind.
It’s in the expectation I create, the narrative I depict, the version I proclaim, the account I advocate.
When I expect life to look a certain way and I demand adherence, when I clasp for control and focus only on my preferred outcome, this is when I begin to derail. Here is where the wind of happiness declines to fill the sail. Where joy as a principle element begins to break down, to fail.
I’m looking for a list to FILL. It’s morphed from a list of gratitude into one of greed.
Of need. Desire.
Desperation.
Rather than the practice of joy and gratitude, the formation of wisdom and discipline, I am desperate for life to make me happy.
Gimme, gimme, gimme.
A bank account that continually grows. A promotion. A whole new job.
Applause. Admiration.
A better marriage. A baby. An empty nest. Clean floors.
Size 10 jeans.
Less wrinkles. More adventures.
A different spouse.
More children. Less children.
More hobbies. More free time.
An impeccable estate.
A small cottage by the lake.
A mountain house.
A Corvette in the garage.
Praise from others.
A bestseller.
8 hours of sleep. Perhaps, a weekly massage.
A different relationship. A new relationship. A best friend.
The lists become endless. Good things become twisted.
In the longing, the wanting-the-next-thing, the trick that THIS would be all it would take,
joy exits the building and melancholy owns the day.
In striving for the utmost happiness, I’ve actually lost the very thing I’m straining for.
There’s one prize worth pressing forward to. One place where we are propelled by forgetting what is behind and reaching toward what is ahead.
I lift the lemonade and sip against the summer heat. Rivulets run along my wrist, the cool dampness welcome. A friend recently told me she’s learned in her fifth decade to become her own best friend. I find this beautiful. I believe the secret to joy as part of our paramount structure is in this very thing. When we become more of ourselves, centered in Christ, alive to the soul He created and sustains, we can move away from our lack. We can let go of the demand of others, of things, of all the right checkboxes, of unshakeable answers. Let go of the pulsing need for them to be our joy, our answer, our solution.
We can let loose the expectation for something else to fill us.
We can pen the gratitude list and really mean it.
We can sit with Contentment, share our lemonade with her. I’ve heard blueberry is her favorite.
We can pull out the giant rainbow playsilks with jubilant abandon.
We can dance under a silky, swaying arch of shimmering saffron light. Follow the curve, the bow, the arch.
Find Pollyanna’s prisms and stand amazed. Listen to the crescendo of joy and hear the pulse of praise.
Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2023
