Learning Where To Look

In the search for joy, where should you try looking?

About three months after my son Carson died, a close friend started asking me this question:

Have you re-discovered your capacity for joy yet? 

Wow, I thought.  No hurry. 

My friend is a go-go, type A, set-goals-and-by-God-achieve-them kind of a person.  He is successful, generous, kind and completely unpretentious.  And the thing is, I know he loves me.  He wants the best for me.  He is horrified by what happened, and it genuinely hurts him, my being in pain. 

A puppy?

When people seem to be in a hurry for you to move on from your loss, a lot of that is altruistic.  But I have also come to understand that there’s usually discomfort, and maybe even a teensy bit of self-interest in there too. As in: “When are you going to feel better? Because honestly, you are kind of a bummer to be around right now. And I hate that I can’t fix it.”  Most of the time, people who set deadlines like this are not conscious of doing it.  Their intentions are good. Best, I have found, to focus on the caring part, and try to let the rest go. 

For my friend, the litmus test of recovery is not feeling marginally better; not making it through the day.  He rockets all the way to the Olympics of happy emotions: joy.  Anything less isn’t aspirational enough.  And as everybody knows, when you shoot for the moon and fall short, well, that’s still progress. It serves as a proof of concept. If you can feel joy once—even for a fleeting moment—it proves you can replicate it.  You are on your way. 

The problem is at three months out --- and I think most bereaved parents will back me up on this -- feeling joy is about as realistic as competing in the actual Olympics yourself. 

But the question got me to thinking. What is the nature of joy? Does it ever work to look at it as a goal; an assignment?  When you are in a howling wilderness of pain, is it really your job to seek joy?

Happiest place on earth?

 In 2017, I trained to be a grief counselor and started working with bereaved parents.  In this work, I see every version of awful.  There are no fixes.  Lots of times, there are not even words.  I try to help people find those things inside themselves that will help them re-claim their lives. I fail a lot.  Joy is not a big topic of conversation. What is a topic —surprisingly—is beauty, and how often that can be found in the shadows.

This is what I have come to understand about joy: stop chasing it.  It’s a byproduct, not a goal.  Set up your life for peace and purpose and if, along the way, the universe sees fit to send you joy, fantastic.  Take it.  Invite it in.  Grab it by the lapels and haul it in your door.  

Santa Fe sunset?

Love in the lives of those who are left?

But the question: am I happy? no longer concerns me much. What I do ask, most mornings is: Where today will I find inspiration?  and How can I use this day to its highest, best purpose? When those are the questions, it’s surprising how often joy shows up. 

In a long, tough journey—not finished yet—I feel I am finally learning where to look.  I have come to understand that it is possible, even after the unspeakable happens, to live your life on a different plane.  It may not be lit with the kind of joy you used to know.  But it very well could be richer, deeper; more powerful; more worthy of this one life you are given.  This is an idea that I share with my bereaved moms and dads.  But not too early.  Nobody wants to hear about silver linings when they are in a howling wilderness.  So I’m patient.  I listen. I trust that the universe will bring me what I need. And I keep searching for the beauty in the shadows. 

About a year after Carson died, my friend asked his question again. 

Still broken, but a stronger version of broken by then, I was quiet for a long time. Finally I said:

I have two answers for that. 

Really? he said, intrigued. What’s the first? 

The first is: That question isn’t useful to me. Do you mind if I tell you why?  He nodded, so I did. When I was finished, he nodded again, clearly thinking about it. 

What’s the second answer? he wanted to know.

The second answer is: thank you for asking. The question may not help. But the fact that you asked it did.  I know that you are here because you love me.