For our third session of Guided Autobiography I chose the theme ‘joy’. Here’s how that went for me…

I can’t remember his name but I can see his face so clearly – the dark curls, the deep brown eyes full of life, the crooked grin – but his name? I can’t remember.

Why would I? I never knew the young man and besides, so much time has passed and so much has happened since then.

I move through life just like most folks do. I work hard. I’m responsible. I try to do my best. I don’t always succeed. 

I watch too much news. I support the resistance…whatever that means. 

And I don’t look for joy. I prefer for it to sneak up and surprise me.

Last Wednesday Ben walked into my studio and wondered how we will answer the question when someone asks, ‘What were you doing when all this happened’. Last Wednesday we had no idea how the world would turn by Friday.

On Friday I arrived at my art studio at 8:30 in the morning. I worked in silence. My only breaks being the yoga classes I teach through Zoom to students in California. At 3:30 in the afternoon the glass blowers who work from the studio across the hall arrived. They’re always loud and happy. And they don’t mind sharing their music which typically blasts with the same burning energy as their red hot furnace. I dull the noise by closing my door. I don’t ask them to change their ways because on occasion their joy is contagious.

But on this Friday my efforts to create something of meaning were failing and my brain hurt from the glass blowers shouting at one another in order to be heard above the pounding beats of heavy metal and hiss of fire.

I admitted defeat and packed my bags for the 30-minute drive home.

And on this Friday I took Old Garth Road to the Owensville turn off. This is the scenic route. A country drive. And why not? It was a beautiful day. Bright and clear in central Virginia. The mountains were a glorious blue. For the first time since we owned our Honda CRV I opened the sun roof and let the cool wind soothe my tired brain and for the first time, despite loving NPR’s Science Friday, the radio was off.

So it wasn’t until early evening on Friday that I learned about the bullies in the White House who scolded a hero for not wearing a suit. For not being grateful. It wasn’t until early evening that I came to the conclusion that everything I took for granted over the past sixty-six years of my life was gone. And now, instead of looking forward to retirement I’m looking forward to fighting fascism. And in that, I find no joy.

Joy, to me, feels like the sound of a piccolo. A bright note.A gleeful chirp.It wouldn’t be joy if it was a constant condition. If it was a state of being.That would be something else. That would be more like happy. And for heaven’s sake don’t confuse joy with bliss – a different kettle of fish altogether. Joy’s ephemeral nature makes it special. 

On Saturday I rose at 6:30. I was feeling wobbly from that second glass of wine I enjoyed with our Thai dinner the night before. I walked downstairs, chugged some coconut water from the carton, fed Tondu the cat and put on the kettle. While I waited for the water to boil I looked out the window and saw movement at the top of the barren tree on the far side of the retention pond. I picked up the binoculars that are always near by and watched a pileated woodpecker pile driving into the wood in search of breakfast. Watching him was a bright note in my morning. A moment of joy.

And then on Saturday evening I stood outside and watched the shallow bowled moon smile at Venus. I traced the ecliptic plane and found Jupiter and if I had not been so chilled by the blustery wind might have waited for the sky to grow more dark and for the red glow of Mars to appear. But it was enough to see that sliver of moon. My day bookended by the gleeful chirp of joy.

I read somewhere that moments of joy can over-ride fear we’re experiencing. I hope that’s true. 

Because I remember the young man’s name. His name was Hersh. Hersh Goldberg-Polin. During the early days after the October 7th terrorist attack in Israel it was impossible to comprehend the magnitude of the murders. It was easier to focus on one universe destroyed. One hostage. I focused on Hersh. He was the young man whose arm was blown off by grenades thrown into the miklat where he was sheltering with dozens of other young people who just hours before had been at an outdoor music festival welcoming a new dawn with joy-filled dancing. He was the young Israeli-American – born in Berkeley – who was shot dead days before he was to be released. 

What I hope for Hersh is that he was brave enough to remember – even as he suffered – the moments of joy in his life. And that by remembering the joy his fear was released.

Like I said, I don’t look for joy. I let joy sneak up and surprise me. 

But last Friday our slow descent into oligarchy became a free fall toward some weird, frightening fascist/nazi hybrid. Joy can no longer be the random trill of a piccolo that catches us by surprise if we’re going to survive the dark symphony of hate and lies that we are living through. Joy is where we gain strength. Where we set aside our fear. 

Joy is my weapon of choice.