JOY

 Church of the Open Road Holiday Greetings for 2022

A week or so before Thanksgiving I am confronted with one of those mid-November days when a low sun peeks above the rim of our surrounding hills just long enough to raise the temperature to the mid-sixties. It had been a while  since I’d straddled my Moto Guzzi and, I decide, whatever else I actually need to do this afternoon can wait. A few minutes from home I am slipping under and through tunnels of black oaks and maples with their glittering gold leaves and entering into gently rolling expanses of harvested vineyards, blocks of foliage now purple and crimson and orange and rust and brown. The sky is cloudless, as blue as it’s ever been. Ever. And the pavement is dry and smooth. The curves are sweeping and gracious.  The speed I am traveling is not heart-poundingly fast. Heart-poundingly fast is not necessary. No. The speed is just right for carving wine country by-ways. And, along with that just right, the emotion I feel is joy.  Not thrill. Not danger. Joy.  

 

We find ourselves entertaining deeper, different thoughts under various conditions. While walking a forest path in the rain. Standing atop an ocean bluff.  Peering into the night sky. Or, for some: looking into the dancing eyes of a grandchild. Or massaging the belly of a loyal, snoozing pet, or, better yet, the shoulders of a beloved partner.

 

How frequently, I wonder, could that deeper notion be defined as joy? What makes a circumstance joyful? And not thrilling or dangerous or silly or sad?  Just as we can drive to the coast or the trailhead or to a starry night sky viewpoint, can we somehow drive our minds to the place where the aroused emotion is delight or bliss?  (Meditation comes to mind, but I fidget way too much to be successful at meditation, so that’s off the table; and my long ago staff at Maidu School more than once, in meetings I was conducting, held up a sign that simply said, “Focus!”)

 

I suppose that I, for one, must do something or go somewhere in order to get to that point.  Good thing there are trails through our neighboring woods for walking.  Good thing it’s a short drive to the ocean.  Good thing that little motorcycle is available for a late-autumn escape.

 

With apologies to Jackie DeShannon, may I posit that joy, like love, is something that ‘there’s just too little of.’ Perhaps it’s because we feel we have to go looking for it. Or we expect to get it from somebody or something else. Perhaps we don’t embrace that joy is not something you get; it is something you have. It’s internal. And it shines through when conditions are just right. 

Like when the kids are tearing through Santa’s gifts on Christmas morning. Or when the fragrance of a freshly carved turkey wafts across the table. Or when a satisfying dusk settles over a tender and cluttered day-long gathering. I’m prompted to think that while love often takes two or more – you know, something folks share with one another – joy, equally appealing and fulfilling, can ride solo. And that’s okay.

 

Sitting in front of the fire with a mug of something warm after everyone else has toddled off – just before the lights are doused on the tree – that joyful feeling visits. 

 

It has been a holiday and it has been just right.

                    The Church of the Open Road

                    and Edward, our beloved pooch* 

                    wish all a joyous noel.

                    Cheers!

* He’s such a good boy.