Tuesday, January 6, 2015

Great Balls of Joy?

I rolled out of bed this morning at the behest of two cats, performed feeding acts and minimal ablutions, and transported oats and tea and notebook up to the writing nook.   The writing nook is a ritual, which gives me a nice, warm, flicker of joy around the edges.  Yay, Joy!  Happy to see you there, buddy.

Being a professional worrier, though, I worry that "joy" could become a victim of my personal ageing process.  Losing vision, loved ones, youthful vigor and strength, and things yet un-lost is a sure-fire Joy douser, but I keep stoking that fire.  Ageing is loss, joy is survival. 

I recently quit a full-time job, and I need to shift gears into other fulfilling work.  I need to justify, to myself, the validity of those alternate pursuits.  Sometimes I feel guilty about being an introverted researcher of mundane proportions by day, instead of building a paycheck and being respectably middle-class.  But I'm giving it over.  Living joyfully is an art.  It requires fuel to feed the fire.  I collect, by bits, fuel for the pursuit and maintenance of joy.

In front of me,Howard Thurman advises: "Don't ask what the world needs.  Ask what makes you
come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive."  Howard, I'm lookin' at you, right here in front of my word-joy maker.

In my head, Kathy Mattea tells the story of a retired trucker and his philosophy:"With pieces of the old dream/ they're gonna light a new flame,/  doing what they please, leaving every other reason behind."  (2)  Kathy, I'm singing your song, and doing what I please.

My Tiny Garden fires me up .  Everybody I know is forced to view baby pictures of Kentucky Wonder pole beans, artisan gourds, and mygodyes! the grape vines that inspire pest research, home canning, pruning methods,and,especially, contemplative reclining-under.  Kitchen Garden fuels preventative medicine research. Research fuels me.

Visiting my son recently, I woke up to a softly turning doorknob and a smiling 4-year-old in my face.  She whispered, "Damma, get up. You have to look out the window. The sun is awake." Then she asked to listen to my heart.  Then I listened to hers.  Her Dad recently explained hearts send food all over our body. She will listen to anybody's heart at the drop of a hat.  Hearts pump joy, too, I will tell her.

With encouragement, cat or kid, I check the sun every morning.  I gather fuel and light the fires.  "Go joyful into that good night," eh Dylan Thomas.




1. Yep, I'm a licensed Linguist and writing teacher and I spell "grandaughter" with one "d" because I wage personal battle against all kinds of stuff including redundant and non-represational spelling and grammar.  Don't think that Spell-Check encourages that sort of thing, either, I have to fight back against it.  I also take license with prescribed research writing reference protocol, because I forget what element comes when, despite having taught it for years.  As I tell English Second Language students:  first, just be understood.  My passionate observations of Grammar--including the joy/job of visually landscaping writing--require a future post. 

2. Mattea, Kathy.  "Eighteen Wheels and a Dozen Roses.
"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ElCpHuiWkA
 

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