I Wonder If Everything I Do, I Do Instead of Something I Want to Do More
April 3, 2014:
Life is monotonous; life is hard. Joy is, I think, hard to come by. Sometimes I even forget to recognize it. A longtime friend of mine was recently in town and we found ourselves hard-pressed to identify—to remember even—the few things that truly delight us. For her, it’s swing sets and a recent trip to the ocean where, never a water bug in her childhood, she found herself floating and playing for hours and hours in the waves—so long, in fact, that she almost missed her flight home.
I am a self-admitted curmudgeon most of the time, so sitting down to make some kind of “bliss list” was a pretty pesky task. I like sarcasm and critical analysis. When I read The Awakening in college, my favorite part was my professor’s terribly brilliant insight that its author, Kate Chopin, was systematically dissecting the romance of making love on the beach by pointing out the sand and the fleas that most people forget.
I guess there’s one example of stumbling upon joy: I love that moment when you’re casually reading a book and, out of nowhere, the author says something so simple and clear and true, it’s as if it came directly from your own thoughts but you could never find the words, and she wrote it just for you. There is a certain delight in those quiet moments of shared understanding.
Other joys on my list are these: Socially awkward but very smart people. My next 13-hour plane ride to the other side of the world; ending up lost in the sweaty door district of Bangkok with my best friend or in the middle of an island lagoon so blue it seems like eyes have never quite seen the color before. Knowing that no matter how hard you push them certain people won’t ever leave. Ryan Seacrest’s voice on the radio. Dancing really slowly in the arms of someone you just might be falling in love with. A well-lit room. Surprising moments of candor between people. The NY Times crossword puzzle. Tweezing ornery hairs. Deadpan wit. Cash in my pocket. Celine Dion’s voice. Remembering that we still have more time if we want it.
By Abigail Ronck, from Diamonds in the Dustheap