The Entanglement of Joy
What if joy is not only entangled with pain, or suffering, or sorrow, but is also what emerges from how we care for each other through those things? Ross Gay
It's Tuesday, and I haven't written a single word for the better part of a week. And yes, I'm a little cranky about it, but I feel confident I will find something worthy to write about.
Which got me thinking about the definition of worthy: having or showing qualities or abilities that merit recognition in a specified way.
So I sat down this morning to write about something worthy after I made lunches for the grandkids, sent them off to school, had coffee with my sister, frantically raced Kelley back to our house for a conference call, did a short tandem ride with Larry, organized a shower for my son's fiance with Kelley, and then sat in my chair praying for inspiration to hit.
When it didn't come, I sat in silence, desperately trying to capture a radical idea, but that was impossible because Larry kept hammering me with questions about the old fish bathroom we're considering renovating.
What do you think about this tile?
How long should the new vanity be?
How narrow can we make the shower and still consider it functional?
What are your thoughts on lighting?
Should we put a half wall here?
I've taped everything off. Come look.
I've put my computer down at least a dozen times, which qualifies me for sainthood, but I didn't write anything worthy.
It was a full morning.
In fact, it was a full weekend.
Half the Oreglia clan and several friends gathered at the lake to celebrate Labor Day and my father-in-law's 86th birthday. Martica and Tim were simultaneously having a bachelor and bachelorette party at my sister-in-law's lake house up the street, so we invited Ken and Marta (their parents) to stay with us.
My daughter Kelley, her husband Tim, Larry, and I are babysitting our grandkids for a few weeks while Julie and Nic travel to Italy for a wedding, so we all drove to the lake to join the festivities.
It's been a busy, memorable, and exhausting weekend.
I love watching the grandkids delight in the most mundane things: doing cartwheels across the living room, playing with a pile of dead rice flies, skipping rocks on the water, jumping off the dock, building castles in the wet sand, playing hide-and-seek with the Wallingers, eating waffles with Nono, making s'mores under the stars, rising at the crack of dawn to snuggle with me in bed.
I observe my father-in-law and how he enjoys engaging with great-grandkids, oblivious to all the noise and confusion around him. He was just happy to be surrounded by family. As he ages, I see how his body struggles to do the things most of us take for granted, like mobility, stamina, and balance. He's slowing down.
It's not easy this whole aging thing.
From my vantage point, I can see how dependent we are on each other, which is one thing that increases as we age—our interdependence.
Like offering an arm when someone needs assistance walking across the room, holding the gate open for a child, carrying heavy bags in from the car, cleaning up the dishes after a meal, caring for a person who feels overwhelmed, or holding a tired child who is having trouble monitoring her emotions.
I see kind-hearted people everywhere—those who stop to help when they see you are struggling, reach out when they notice you are grappling with loneliness, or simply lift you up when you feel down.
My granddaughter, Cora, was trying out the canoe one morning when a powerful current pulled her out beyond the dock. She panicked when she couldn't control the small boat in the wind and current. Her twin sister, Sienna, heard her screams. She yells, "Hold on, Cora, I'm coming," and she swam out to her, bravely pulling her canoe back to shore.
It was heroic.
You might ask, where in the hell were the adults? Oh, they were there, standing by, ready to assist, but what a pleasure it was to see the confidence illuminating Sienna's face when she was able to rescue her sister all by herself.
I also remember when I upset Kelley unintentionally. I wanted to repair the damage in the morning, but it's not easy to admit when you've been hurtful, struggled to keep your emotions in check, or were overwhelmed. When we refuse to restore our bonds, the wound continues to fester, eventually destroying the relationship.
It's one of the most powerful things we can say to each other, "I'm sorry. I love you. Please forgive me." When someone accepts your apology, it reveals our deep need to be seen, validated, and, despite it all, to know we are loved even when we mess up and let our vulnerabilities show.
Garbor Mate says everything in life only grows when it allows itself to be vulnerable. The word itself comes from the Latin word vulnus, which means the ability to be wounded. He says we shut down our capacity for growth when we hide behind our defenses, like self-righteousness or a sense of superiority, because being vulnerable is too painful.
We are designed to care for each other, and as Ross Gay claims, it's always a lie that convinces us to act or believe otherwise. Always.
It's as if we were a grove of trees with our roots entangled. We know exactly what each other needs because our relationship is symbiotic. We're not rooted in allegiance, obligation, or fear—we're rooted in love.
When I return to that original quote (at the top of the page) about joy and how it emerges from our entanglement with each other's pain and suffering, I see this so clearly, especially as I age.
I can't do all the things I used to be able to do, and that gap will only continue to widen until I can't do the things I need to do to survive. I'll return to the vulnerability of a child whose survival is dependent on the caregiver and whose ability to thrive is dependent on the quality of that care.
It's dangerous to be vulnerable, to age gracefully, to fully expose ourselves when all the pretensions we usually hide behind are gone, but it also requires acceptance and grace for the limitations and restrictions of those offering to help.
In my opinion, caregiving, part of all our interactions with others, does not make us worthy. It makes us human. What is unworthy is when we deny this to each other because we've bought into the lie that our desires, perceived injustices, or sense of self-importance take precedence over that of the person in need.
The truth is, we are all struggling. It's part of life. I believe our connection grows when we allow ourselves to be vulnerable in the presence of each other. Slipping beside a child as she falls asleep or a parent struggling to take her last breath and then gently closing their eyes with your fingertips is a courageous act of love entangled with our ability to experience joy.
I'm Living in the Gap, watching the grandbabies for another week, so I apologize for missing your posts and not responding promptly to your comments.
Grow Damn It! is the kind of book you hold on to! Available on Amazon!
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