Rough Joy

  

Some years ago I was in conversation with the poet and essayist Ross Gay. I remember reflecting that he writes about the “roughness of joy,” a phrase I had not thought of until that moment and which he received in his affable, and affirmative way. “Yes! That,” or some such exclamation. And since then, I’ve had many an occasion to think about how joy can be accompanied by roughness. Like right now in so many parts of the world, including the US, where  the tenderness of human life is held, again and again in the balance, along with so many of our deepest values. Where every day we wake to some other unimaginable unfoldment. And yet, we must still do days, and do them in a way that is not bound up entirely in hopelessness or anger or grief. I think a lot about days since they are the main increment I can manage. Not more, for sure. A day. Nice and round as a boiled egg. 

In fact, I have a list for day management! And I am going to allow you into my private lair for a moment to see how I bring joy to roughness. Your list would look different. Or similar. And don’t think I have the time for these things every day! I wish. I am just glad when I am able to land on a few of them and thereby replenish my quickly depleted stores of peace of mind, calm, and general well-being. 

At the end of the day, I look back and see which of the following I’ve spent time with. This is just a sample, there are more. 

Did I:

Spend some time in nature, whether at the harbor, the dog park, in the forest. Or maybe the garden, pruning roses, watering. 

Bake something. Anything. Green tea cookies, a packet of Trader Joe’s Blondies (so good!) And yes, baking is somehow different from cooking. Cooking is essential. Baking is only for joy.

Hang out with my dog (the answer is always yes, so that one’s easy) Dogs need a lot of things: Food, walks, brushing, bathing, playing with (in our case) a stuffed bunny. These things take time and energy away from worry and trouble.

Get enough sleep. So much goes into this as anyone over thirty knows. Sleep becomes increasingly elusive for most of us. Odd. Interrupted. Almost frightening when you’ve fallen out of its graces. To this end I make sure to make my bed with comfortable layers, drink a mineral supplement before bed, and not watch anything violent or disturbing such as––Oh I don’t know—the news!

Take a moment to drink a cup of tea. Like, really drink a cup of tea. Stop everything and savor. This, to me, is one of the first and most essential signs of civilization.

Write! That is, of course, one of the biggest ones. Some of the roughest joy I ever found was writing in a small notebook perched over my baby’s head while holding him in my arms the hospital. A feat of balance, but It kept me sane in the darkest days. 

When we practice our art, whatever it is, we also become more of ourselves. We gain territory, expand. What is your art? It could be parenting, painting, tending your business, your poems, your plants.

So I will leave you with that as I venture north to teach at Pacific University’s MFA program til the end of the month. I know we'll be so immersed, I’ll barely lift my head from the bubble we’ll be living in: poems, poems and poems!  But I am remembering how many times poetry has saved me. Baking a loaf of bread has saved me. Talking to a friend. I think of my list as a list from times of fullness, but also, and maybe more importantly, for times of emptiness. A list to get through days with some joy. Rough as it may be.

What saves you? Let’s build a collective list!

And if you’d like to know more of what I’m up to and offering these days in terms of writing classes and community, go to www.litfieldwriters.com and get on our mailing list! We’re filling up our summer class and closing in on the founding members in our Litfield community between now and July 1st. I’ll be on the road as I said—but looking forward to reconnecting soon. One way or another.