| << Back 8/28/02 Finding the path to a simple emotion – joy By Kathy de Cano I often recall the words of a pastor at a church I once attended in Arizona. He was quoting another pastor, whose favorite line was, “Hot dog! This is it!” What better way to express the emotion we call joy? Webster’s has defined it as “intense happiness or great delight.” Personally, I am usually at a loss for words to articulate its meaning, being one of those proponents of what one writer called “unspeakable joy,” but I know it when I feel it, and I think we would all agree there is nothing else like it. What brings you joy? Perhaps it is the way your dog greets you at the end of the day, barking and jumping, licking your face, wagging its tail, and looking at you with that loyal, unconditional gaze that only canines have mastered. Or maybe it’s the touch of a loved one, not preconceived, completely spontaneous because nothing brings him or her as much joy as feeling your skin, your presence, your being in the very same room. Maybe your personal accomplishments fill you with a little more than a sense of satisfaction, something more along the lines of real joy. If you have children, you have known the joy of their births, their smiles, their laughter, their growth, their accomplishments, their very existence, which in turn confirms your own. And then there are friends, those people that share in our joys, as well as our sorrows, that delight in our happiness and grieve when we are sad. Some folks are so in tune as to find themselves filled with joy upon seeing a new sunrise, a summer rain, the hues of the rainbow, the glistening of midnight stars, or a fat, full moon. Ironically, we can only recognize joy because we have known sorrow, and vice versa. Our tongues know sweetness because lemons are sour, beer is bitter, and salt is salty. Our hearts can become glad because they have been sad. In my life I have been blessed with knowing two human examples of what I would call satisfaction — my father and my brother. They tend to be content with what life has freely handed them, and I must say that, being the seeker I have been most of my life, I have found occasion to ponder them. Were I of a jealous nature, I might have even envied them as well, but not being so, I have mostly just contemplated their contentedness for many an hour. Their “needs” are few, as are their wants. Very simple things seem to bring them joy. My brother will swell in delight with the strain of a particular song. My father will laugh and talk for days about putting a whoopee cushion in my sister-in-law’s chair during a family dinner. They are not so much about doing to encounter joy as they are about being. That’s not to say they are without ambition, or what my dad would call “gumption.” They are both hard-working men, Pap especially. It also doesn’t mean they have not made changes in their lives when that was necessary for their happiness or well-being or that of others they cared about. It was often harder for them than many to turn over a new leaf, but eventually they always found the fortitude and know-how to do that and then to return to a state of contentedness fairly quickly. It may be in their blood, since my father has related that his grandmother would sit for a whole hour at Christmas stroking the bow that held together her yearly gift of handkerchiefs and fingering the embroidery on the simple linen cloth, a smile of immense gratitude lingering on her face the entire day. She had her family gathered, there was wood in the stove, food in her belly, snuff under her lip, and dandelion wine in her glass. She was content. But I often wonder what brought her joy. The last time I saw her alive, we were celebrating her hundredth birthday. My uncle asked her, “Granny, do you know how old you are today?” Afflicted with Alzheimer’s, she answered with a grin, “Oh, about 50?” A flash bulb popped from the newspaperman’s camera, and the smile faded from her face when my uncle informed her that she was a hundred. Fifty forgotten years fogged her brain, and I imagined, though very young at the time, also robbed her of a day meant to be filled with candles, cake and joy. By some luck of the draw, I took after my mother’s family as far as what I thought would make me happy in life. We are restless, curious, inquisitive, prone to depression, and ever looking for new ways to define and experience joy. Living without it has no meaning for us. We take very literally those words about “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” Consequently, I think we have rarely been content. Every time I call my cousin in Tennessee, he has yet another set of irons in the fire. Being very talented, he can call himself a master woodcarver, a musician, a songwriter, an artist, an actor, a Web page designer, a real estate agent, and a devoted Harley rider. And he manages to put food on the table from a combination of several of those pursuits without anyone ever putting tabs on his time. I sometimes think of him as a sort of representational specimen of the combined qualities of our particular breed. We count among our lot poets, painters, craftsmen, wanna-be chefs, a federal judge, social workers, teachers, wives of pastors and CEOs, deacons, and seafarers, all descended from a mountain poetess and quilt maker and a combination coal miner-moonshiner. Some of us travel, learn languages, read avidly, and debate passionately and marvelously, ever on the cutting edge of some new-fangled philosophy or the discovery of yet another playground or toy. But are we content in our endeavors to feel joy? My own yearnings for the elusive emotion have led me to live and study in several states and countries, marry and divorce, bear children, change careers, become an adventurer, and many times simply cast my fate to the winds. I have no regrets, though I have had my share of sorrows, and yet I sometimes wonder if the magnitude of the incredible (and some might say exotic) joys I have felt, given the depths of my sorrows (for I’m convinced it is all relative), would weigh well against a life of simple contentedness. How would things measure out in the balance? I have seen the look of wonder and even bewilderment in my father’s eyes when I have told him of my own exploits, but even so, he has no desire to walk even one mile in my shoes. He is at peace with what he knows: the soil bringing forth under the loving care of his able hands, his cattle in the field, going to church on Sunday, the smell of his wife’s cornbread wafting its way through the big farmhouse. These things are familiar to him. Most of it could always be had right outside his front door. And inside his door, there is plenty of laughter — big, bold, and boisterous. I must admit that, ultimately, after tasting a myriad of the flavors the world has to offer, I had to come home to the Southland I once vowed never to return to. No doubt I am richer for having expanded my horizons, but there was a price to be paid. Nothing worth having is free, but some things come at a high cost. Sometimes, we end up paying the bill in long, drawn-out installments, and the payments seem at first unrelated to the initial item we believed we were purchasing. Personally, I’m still willing to pay. Experiences, when applied or even just reflected on, are a priceless investment. But I am still reminded of the high price tag from time to time when my “double vision” or multiple perspective makes me feel like an outsider in my own country. I need to be home and am so glad to be, but I can’t forget what I’ve seen, can’t undo what I know and have lived that has also become a part of who I am. Sometimes, as much as I love people and being around them, my other “knowing” isolates me. As a teacher here, I have often heard students in this area express a desire to get away, to see something different, to be where things are “happening.” That’s a common enough feeling among teenagers, especially those living in a rural area as I did. But recently, I have talked to several students that went away, some very far and others not so far, only to find themselves so homesick that they came back here to complete their studies. One that had gone to a desert area expressed her complete and utter joy at rediscovering the color green, the beauty of the trees, the majesty of these older mountains filled with flora and fauna as compared to the younger, rockier mountains she had seen out West. Her journey of return to joy, or perhaps rather the rediscovery of contentedness, only took a year, while mine took about 20. I don’t know what makes the difference in various folk as far as how long it takes them to find their hearts’ homes, only that the difference exists, and that we each must bring back the riches of our wanderings and invest them right here where it counts for us and the people we really care about. And the surest pursuit of joy is in giving it, making it contagious, finding it right where it always has been: inside of us, waiting for permission to escape in our love and our laughter, and all around us at any given time, whispering and begging us to allow it to steal a little bit of the limelight. Hear that woodpecker? Smell that lilac, your granny’s rosy perfume? Feel the waters of the Oconaluftee on your skin? See the glow in the eyes of that child playing carelessly by the maple tree or the smile of your beloved at the end of the day? Taste those strawberries picked freshly from a fertile field? Do you sense the joy of being alive, of being here? Finally, after a long, hard road of travels, I think I do. Yeah, hot dog! This is it.
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