Along the roadsides now, the summer wildflowers dance. I walk ankle deep in them, naming them as I go – red clover, daisy, Queen Anne’s lace, butterfly weed, and tiny yellow ones whose name I do not know. The air is fragrant with their scents and the scents of the grasses and of the corn in the fields they line. Earlier today I learned that to make a single pound of honey, bees must visit two million flowers. “Here they are! Here they are!” I call to all four corners as I twirl in joy beneath the early August sun, laughing because, of course, the bees already know.
In this one instant of reality a delicate swallowtail lights on the blazing red of an azalea, just inches from my face, for a sip of nectar from its central circle of tiny flowers, the sun’s hot light drenching it all so that the colors burn themselves into my mind even before the swallowtail rises to vanish in a dance in the far trees.
Be a world-tipper, one who stands tall with arms flung wide, trumpeting your joy. Be the one who makes the difference, who turns the tide from dark to light, who brings in the dawning of happiness. Color the world with your twinkle and shine. Give a hoot, give a wink, give a word, give a smile. Stuff your pockets with kindness and pass it out to strangers. Scatter love as freely as popcorn; there’s always plenty more. Be the bright bloom beside the dusty road, and sing out your deep-throated joy. Go ahead: Tip the world in life’s favor.
“Take all you want,” my neighbor said. as we drove in his old golf cart to the far corner of the farm where they grew beneath the power lines. They hung heavy and gleaming from thorny stems that rose into the sky or hung in tangled brambles that wound in twists to the ground. I had to move slowly and carefully as I reached for one after another, planning the trajectory of my hand’s travel, thorns finding my bare arms anyway, and me not caring at all, a few scratches seeming a small price to pay for such rare treasures. Red-winged blackbirds and robins called from the trees at the property’s edge, the breeze from them licking my face as the high sun blinded me and burned my skin. But the berries were jewels, nearly falling into my hand as I touched them, making a soft plumping sound as I gently dropped them into my bowl, and I kept on until I got them all, every last perfectly ripe one. A few, of course, went straight to my watering mouth as well. Some of them are frozen now, and will wait until Christmas to be made into pie. And some became jam and glisten from the centers of thumbprint butter cookies, a gift of thanks and gladness for my neighbor, the very least that I could give in exchange for the gift of this memorable hour.
Today is one of those “keeper” days, the kind you put in your memory bottle to uncork when winter’s grown long, just to remember that perfection is possible. So I stand here, feeling the breeze on my cheek, the warmth of the sun on my arms, inhaling the fragrances of water, sand, wild carrot, and trees, listening to the lapping of the waves against the shore, to the whisper of dancing leaves. From around the bend where white floats guard the little beach, the laughter of children rises like birds into the clear, sparkling air, sending me back to childhood. And I add those scenes to my memory bottle, too, the ones where time stood still and every moment tasted like honey. Ah, it will be a fine wine, this one, holding the flavors of the golden days when life was rich and full, and absolutely nothing was lacking.
It’s a Sunday, the last one in July and I am sitting on mown grass at the edge of the creek, watching sunlight float on its calm waters as if it were blessing the day. And the waters, in turn, bless the minnows darting in its shallows, and the roots of the trees on its banks, and the roots of the grasses and flowers. And geese plop on their webbed feet to the water’s edge and slide into it as if to partake in this grace. And I breathe the green of it, and my heart whispers “Summer. Summer. Summer.”
When you visit here, maybe you’ll notice that my subtitle is “A Joy Warrior’s Journey.” “Joy Warrior” is a title I gave myself back when I was immersed in my studies of positive psychology. It started out as a game. I imagined it as my joining a kind of order or school where you dedicated yourself to learning to live in joy, no matter what. I invented an ever-growing story around it. I couldn’t help it; it’s the writer in me.
It turns out that it’s serious business being a Joy Warrior. It’s not like all of a sudden you step into a pair of magic happy shoes and tra-la-la your way though life. It’s not a game of let’s pretend.
Its goal is to master the art of dissolving anything that stands between you and perfect, radiant joy. And these days, the heap of things cluttering access to joy seems astonishingly deep and tall. It extends from right under our feet to the edges of the sky. As a joy warrior, it’s your job to figure out how to keep those things from stealing your attention and peace. And let me tell you, that’s one heck of a challenge.
So here I am, slaying the dragons that would devour my view of joy, passing along clues as I find them. I’ve learned that joy-stealers are devious, malevolent things. And they love to upset you. To them your rage is like a charred marshmallow to devour around a fire as they chortle with scorn. Remembering that is a good tool to keep in your basket. Don’t feed the joy-stealers.
Another things I’ve learned is that you’re best off when you play to your strengths. Do what you’re good at, what attracts you, what gets your heart beating. Back in the hippie days they said it, “Follow your bliss.” You go farther faster when you move in harmony with your personal strengths than you do when you try to fight against your weaknesses. Smile at your reflection in the mirror every day. Maybe wink at yourself. Remember what it feels like to have fun, to be at ease, to feel a sense of appreciation floating up from somewhere inside you.
You see things more broadly when you’re at peace and content with things just as they are. Even when they’re not what you wanted them to be. It’s a discipline to look for the silver lining, you know. And there always is one. It’s a world of contrasts, of dualities, a kind of “can’t have one without the other” place. When you can see that, and allow it to be okay, the problems of the world, even your personal ones, lose their density and the light of joy, glowing soft and silver, shines through them, and there’s more clarity, and perspective, and a kind of wordless understanding of how everything really is okay.
I didn’t mean to go on and on. I just wanted to expand a little on my experiences as a Joy Warrior. You can decide to be one, too, you know. Or invent a school of your own. Or just be who you are and have the most fun being you that you can possibly have.
When my dreaming stopped, I was face to face with a lavender bee balm blossom, its perfume sharp and green, and, of all things, a hummingbird moth drinking in its nectar, then floating to the next one through the moist summer air, here beneath tall pines with whipped cream clouds floating in the blue sky. What are the odds? Who could imagine such a world!
After the rain, I took a tour of the gardens. The air is still very warm and moist and feels as if it’s licking my bare arms with a big, wide tongue. Everything glistens. I smile at the bright upside down flowers floating in the peppermint patch. The promised thunderstorm skirted around us again. I watched the radar as the storm patch separated, some going to the north of us, some to the south. All we got was a speckling of rain. I pouted. But then I thought that I should be grateful for what is, and careful what I wish for, and the little flowers beamed.
