[joi]–noun
| 1. | the emotion of great delight or happiness caused by something exceptionally good or satisfying; keen pleasure; elation. |
| 2. | a source or cause of keen pleasure or delight; something or someone greatly valued or appreciated. |
| 3. | the expression or display of glad feeling; festive gaiety. |
| 4. | a state of happiness or felicity. |
[fuhn]–noun
1. something that provides mirth or amusement.
I've learned to pay attention when sychronicity occurs in my life, at any level. For the past month, it seems that everyone who has crossed my path, professionaly or personally, is on a quest for a more joyful existance. "More fun" is the sentence I hear. Fun is defined by many things, but the underlying sense of which I'm discerning, is the want for a lightness of spirit.
So, I am looking through the lens of joy and seeing how many times I have the option to choose a lighter response throughout the day.
I guess I'm not in life looking for "more fun," because I think fun is overrated; generally other people's idea of fun is not mine. But I can say that I am thoughtfully looking at the concept of living more fully, playing harder, working harder and filling up more psychological space in the world. If nothing else, that means going beyond the boundaries of what other people expect of me, which is always good.
ReplyDelete"Choosing a lighter response." That's one way to put it. I find that it's easier to use that "soft answer" when I'm already happy. I think you're well on your way.
This, too, is sense:
ReplyDeleteWild Gratitude,
by Edward Hirsch
__________________
Tonight when I knelt down next to our cat, Zooey,
And put my fingers into her clean cat's mouth,
And rubbed her swollen belly that will never know kittens,
And watched her wriggle onto her side, pawing the air,
And listened to her solemn little squeals of delight,
I was thinking about the poet, Christopher Smart,
Who wanted to kneel down and pray without ceasing
In everyone of the splintered London streets,
And was locked away in the madhouse at St. Luke's
With his sad religious mania, and his wild gratitude,
And his grave prayers for the other lunatics,
And his great love for his speckled cat, Jeoffry.
All day today—August 13, 1983—I remembered how
Christopher Smart blessed this same day in August, 1759,
For its calm bravery and ordinary good conscience.
This was the day that he blessed the Postmaster General
"And all conveyancers of letters" for their warm humanity,
And the gardeners for their private benevolence
And intricate knowledge of the language of flowers,
And the milkmen for their universal human kindness.
This morning I understood that he loved to hear—
As I have heard—the soft clink of milk bottles
On the rickety stairs in the early morning,
And how terrible it must have seemed
When even this small pleasure was denied him.
But it wasn't until tonight when I knelt down
And slipped my hand into Zooey's waggling mouth
That I remembered how he'd called Jeoffry "the servant
Of the Living God duly and daily serving Him,"
And for the first time understood what it meant.
Because it wasn't until I saw my own cat
Whine and roll over on her fluffy back
That I realized how gratefully he had watched
Jeoffry fetch and carry his wooden cork
Across the grass in the wet garden, patiently
Jumping over a high stick, calmly sharpening
His claws on the woodpile, rubbing his nose
Against the nose of another cat, stretching, or
Slowly stalking his traditional enemy, the mouse,
A rodent, "a creature of great personal valour,"
And then dallying so much that his enemy escaped.
And only then did I understand
It is Jeoffry—and every creature like him—
Who can teach us how to praise—purring
In their own language,
Wreathing themselves in the living fire.