3:40 a.m. It’s 67° F. Overcast skies. Sleeping birds. Dew has made its way from somewhere to the front lawn, my footsteps mark the path behind me to the car.
Here it is — the 1,871th consecutive (almost) day on this early morning walk at Cove Island Park. Like in a row.
With 5 1/2 (!) solid hours of sleep in me, I’m near giddy — there’s almost a spring in my step that has me in a near-stable, upright position, stable as in physicality-only that is.
A Siri alert pops up calling for heavy fog, which lifts the spirit further. It’ll keep park traffic down (so great), and add some appropriate tonality to this Federal Holiday, Juneteenth.
There’s usually three or four of us walkers in the early twilight hours, a fisherman or two, and a runner or two. We all keep to ourselves (mostly all), and keep an eye out for each other, and a suspicious eye on all newcomers (aka interlopers, serial killers, marauders, etc.)
For the last few months, small joys have been my sustenance… Often these small moments fade from view with the passage of time. What makes it into our memory banks are the bigger things—either the zeniths or the nadirs—but what we end up longing for and leaning on in hard times are the little quotidian comforts and delights; they lift and carry us from day to day. Noting these joys is a muscle I’ve been consciously trying to exercise: training the eye to see them and training the mind to hold onto them.
I do want to make a distinction here between the practice of celebrating small joys and the culture of “toxic positivity,” where we’re told to be ever-grateful, to always search for the silver linings, to put a positive spin on all experiences, even the profoundly tragic. The author Barbara Ehrenreich has written critically about this cultural phenomenon with far more nuance than I can in this missive, but it’s a topic I’ve thought a lot about, especially in these last months. It’s easy to feel pressure to be someone who “suffers well”—grateful and graceful and stoic 24/7. But that doesn’t allow us to exist fully, to experience the full range of the human condition, from happiness to grief, from gratitude to envy.
I love observing tiny daily joys because it feels natural and easy, not forced, not pressurized, not all or nothing. And not only has the practice helped ease this difficult passage, it’s helped me identify what lifts me up, and then I can cultivate more of it. (Read the rest of her essay here.)
“Suleika’s career aspirations as a foreign correspondent were cut short when, at age 22, she was diagnosed with leukemia. She began writing her New York Times column “Life, Interrupted” from her hospital room at Sloan-Kettering, and has since become a fierce advocate for those living with illness and enduring life’s many other interruptions.” From her bio here.
Notes:
With gratitude to Mary Ann for sharing. Thank you.
Portrait of Suleika Jaouad from her Facebook page here.
4:00 am. Friday morning. I’ve been watching the clock since 1:30 a.m, drifting in and out of light sleep.
“Racing thoughts. Reduced need for sleep. Exaggerated sense of self. Irritability…Obsessive rumination.” — Cory Richards
Wally, has been restless all night too, probably for biological reasons I’m sure. He refused to go outside before bed – it was drizzling. Our Wally, loves water, hates rain. Go Figure. He loves splashing in baby pools, clomping along shorelines and muck, and best of all, puddles. I watch him veer right and left on the park path, splashing through puddles from the overnight rains. Think toddler with big rubber boots.
And here we are, 1,557 consecutive (almost) days in a row on this daybreak walk at Cove Island Park. Like in a row.
Susan and Eric left on a road trip for Grandma’s birthday. Wally watched me leave for the park that same morning looking terrified: Not going to be left Home Alone again. No sir.
At 63, Louis-Dreyfus says she’s still trying to prove herself (“always”), and that “Tuesday” is part of that process. “I’m certain nobody would have considered me for that role 20 years ago, and that’s probably because they just thought of me only as a ‘ha-ha’ funny person.” She’s still interested in TV comedy, she told me, but she’s loving this stage of her career, and getting to do more. “I just want to try it all,” she says. “It’s good for my brain.”
“But anyway, I’m done with that. I’m done with self-doubt. I’m done with shame. I’m done with feeling weird about being ambitious. You know, the list is long. We all know what it is. I think for me, the takeaway is: Oh, we can be done with that sooner than we thought. We don’t have to take 60, 70 [expletive] years to come to that conclusion — I’m working on being done with self-doubt. I’m working on being done with shame. And I’m working really hard on finding joy. […]
There’s always room to learn more, and for me, that is an incredibly joyful adventure.”
There is no explaining this simple truth about life: you will forget much of it. The painful things you were certain you’d never be able to let go? Now you’re not entirely sure when they happened, while the thrilling parts, the heart-stopping joys, splintered and scattered and became something else. Memories are then replaced by different joys and larger sorrows, and unbelievably, those things get knocked aside as well, until one morning you’re picking cherries with your three grown daughters and your husband goes by on the Gator and you are positive that this is all you’ve ever wanted in the world.
