Joy!

Joyful. That’s the defining quality of my life, and I like it just fine.

I once heard a woman discussing how her religious belief had brought JOY to her life. Did this mean that she was always happy? Not by a long shot—that wasn’t what she meant and it wasn’t even what she expected. She said that this joy was a kind of foundation, and on top of that, she could be laughing her head off or she could be crying her eyes out, or doing anything between those two extremes, but her underlying feeling was still one of profound joy in life.

And that’s just what I mean when I describe my life as joyful. Now I am not a religious woman—in fact, I’m a skeptic on that score—my spiritual jury is still out (though I still believe in the golden rule and feel that it could be the basis of peace on earth). So I guess my joy comes from somewhere else—from myself, I suppose, but also from my great fortune in being surrounded with people I love and having a job I love and so many other reasons to be thrilled to get up every morning.

OK, so my life is far, far from perfect—I’ve got the same irritants in my life as everyone else has: appliances break down, the aches and pains of being in my 50s appear and disappear, the Chief sometimes disagrees with me, and Cocoa isn’t always a model of good dog behavior. Plus, there are my two parents with Alzheimer’s disease, my home in what is apparently Hurricane Central, my dear brother living thousands of miles away, and of course, taxes. But again, there’s that substrate of joy joy joy joy (hmmm, think that comes from a song I learned in Sunday school, ironically enough).

And oddly enough, this joy—or at least its outward manifestation in my behavior—irritates some people. I know a woman—I used to call her my friend, but she wanted too much for me to be unhappy, as she is, so now we’re only acquaintances. I guess misery loves company. But joy loves company too, and I could wish for everyone to have the same underlying joy in life as I have. Think what a world it would be then!