Fire, Ice, and the Elusive Joy
Who are you? -Don Draper
I’m Joy -Joy
(Mad Men, “The Jet Set” (Episode 2.11)
I saw the word hunger in a dream — not a representation of the word, but the word itself.
Earlier, I had been lying by the fireplace, letting its warmth melt the week’s worth of ice that had collected on my soul.
These days, I find that I require more frequent thawing-out. It can be hard to locate light amid the darkness — all-consuming and capable of causing frostbite, if not careful.
With more stars spinning in my head than usual, I intended to write a poem. I soon decided to trade it in for prose. I began to pen a scenario — the kind that only a clandestine fantasy is capable of sparking.
It was a mutual desire to have ourselves a Merry little Christmas. Like the last drop of Italian liquor, I savored it — the entwined, impassioned grammar of two bodies. ’Tis the season to be Merry, after all, and I was overdue for a miracle.
The continuation of writing Paradise into existence, the Soul Call put into words, or both?
Either way, the ice was really starting to melt. We live vicariously through the characters that we create.
Sometimes, my writing causes me to wonder: how much joy have I exchanged for pain? Have I done so knowingly? Unknowingly?
I would like to think that I have done so unknowingly.
Can I somehow complete the cycle — begin to exchange pain for joy?
Am I capable, as Captain Picard would say, of making it so or does it involve a sort of luck that feels just out of my reach?
Who among us does not wish to live a life informed by joy?
Who among us is not searching for something, though they know not what?
I suppose my thinking is not unique.
I am only trying to figure out if this is supposed to mean something has been spoken many times over, and not just by me.
This mood of mine is nothing new, especially for this time of year. I think the holidays — and the media surrounding the holidays — have a way of causing us to re-evaluate our lives, to take stock of our happiness levels, and have the capacity to make us feel more lonesome than usual.
Are we in balance and if not, how can we even out the scales?
Some years ago, right around this time in December, I met a man who considered himself lucky. But luck didn’t simply appear on the steps of his tour bus. He created his luck by acting on opportunity. And though he later left me for a short skirt, I can think back and admire his ability to personify the American dream — to stop at nothing until he satisfied his hungry heart, loneliness extinguished.
They say we can be drawn to our polar opposites. The old me did not realize that reality — like love — is just a dream that we decide to create.
I did not understand that the point of life is to feed the heart that beats until, one day, it beats no longer.
There is a lesson to be learned here. We are driven to action by ignition of the spirit,
so we have to keep our spirit well lubricated.
But with each passing year, I seem to become more inwardly Scroogeian because my spirit is experiencing a degree of burnout -
because my perception of the world has changed, and not for the better -
because my head is so full of images that I have fallen in love with -
images that once ignited my spirit -
images that came to represent my personal definition of joy
but no longer exist in the present-day.
I exist within a so-changed world, with cherished images gradually fading from memory.
Even the mere mention of it causes my light to become dimmer.
I am overcome in trying to hold onto memories that were never fully mine to begin with.
I guess, somewhere along the lines, my definition of joy became skewed.
Such is the hard reality of reconstructive memory.
Who among us does not look upon our past with rose-colored glasses, romanticizing events that weren’t all that romantic to begin with?
I often think about a place that, come December, would transform into a child’s definition of a winter wonderland. Wide-eyed, they would wonder aloud to me — how could the world they knew become Santa’s Workshop overnight?
Oh, oh, oh, it’s magic. You know. Never believe it’s not so.
And I felt a little magical, too — having the daily opportunity to play act in their fantasy. Christmas hadn’t felt that magical to me in a long while.
I had a collector’s edition of “The Night Before Christmas” and I would sit in my then-Library, putting on my best story-telling voice.
I had impatient children rustling at my feet, scrambling to paw at the pop-up illustrations.
I had the warmth of multicolored lights as my backdrop.
Though the scene was not without its frustrations, it largely felt like something out of a Christmas card — maybe even one of those Hallmark movies.
Did that make me Mrs. Claus? Santa was around somewhere.
But then, as Joni Mitchell sang:
They paved Paradise and put up a parking lot -
figuratively, not literally.
Here I am, romanticizing again. I think the brain has a way of preserving the good parts.
As these images become relegated to the confines of my memory, I cannot help but wonder how long they will remain there, intact.
Can I place blame on the media and its definition of Christmas — of how dangerously easy it is to get caught up in the ideal portrayal of the holiday?
Who wouldn’t begin to scrutinize their own happiness?
But then, out of the blue, the aha moment occurs.
Someone calls me her treasure, remarking that I am limited edition — her inspiration, and I remember the true meaning of the season — to be present for another who is suffering —
to be a beacon of light and hope.
I am needed by someone whose life is just beginning, someone trying to navigate her way through a harsh world.
I am no scholar, yet she requests my wisdom.
The task is daunting, yet it fills me with purpose that I haven’t experienced in a long while.
I have always believed that people find their way into our orbit because they are meant to be there. The world is a big place, and we cannot possibly encounter everyone within it — so we are sent the chosen few.
The best people are those who challenge our way of life —
who make us want to be better, more fulfilled versions of ourselves —
who encourage us to take a risk —
who manage to reinstate our faith in the world somehow —
because it’s not about images but rather, connection.
The very reason we were put on the earth.
A listening ear to someone suffering,
heart-to-hearts with friends and family,
intimate moments with a lover whose eyes reply to yours,
and Christmas —
about giving and sharing and
the joy that results.
