Woven delights.

Everything is a bit of a mix, isn’t it? Even a perfect moment is inseparable from its transience. Glennon Doyle coined the term ‘brutiful’ for this, a mix of brutal and beautiful.

In his Book of Delights, Ross Gay embarks on a quest to document the delights of each day for a year. Everything from bindweed to community to the joys of gardening. That act of paying attention, looking for the delights in each day, is, in itself, a delight, an opening to the promise and possibility of each moment.

Just the act of searching for those delights and holding them up, maybe even writing them down, serves to make each moment more meaningful and appreciated. As we train and condition ourselves to notice the things that delight us, even those we would never normally consider delights, we grow in gratitude and awe. Our worlds take on more depth and value. And we are better able to see the roses amidst the thorns.

Don’t miss the joy.

penguinjoy

We generally find what we look for. We are good at it, and that skill helps us to recognize that one face in a sea of faces, to ferret out clues at a crime scene, to heed the landmarks that lead us home. But when we are trying to process a barrage of information coming at us all at once and trying to make sense of it without being overcome, we need to look for the unexpected things, the startling things, the beautiful things. We need to seek joy.

In his Book of Delights, Ross Gay goes on a mission to write about something delightful, everyday. And, while he initially thought he would have to scrounge for delights, after a bit of practice, he learned to find them everywhere. The delightful things were abundant and overflowing. More important, those delights made him realize how interconnected we are and that we are caretakers, each for the other. In a world that can seem cold and callous, we are generally good to each other:

I suppose I could spend time theorizing how it is that people are not bad to each other. But that’s really not the point. The point is that in almost every instance of our social lives, we are, if we pay attention, in the midst of an almost constant, if subtle, caretaking – holding doors open, offering elbows at crosswalks, letting someone else go first, helping with the heavy bags, reaching what’s too high or what’s been dropped, pulling someone back to their feet, stopping at the car wreck – at the struck dog, the alternating merge, also known as the zipper. This caretaking is our default mode, and it’s always a lie that convinces us to act or believe otherwise – always.

As we scrounge for our delights, we begin to see them all around us–the groceries grown and harvested for us to enjoy, the clothes crafted and sewn, the traffic signs to keep us safe, the laughter of children, birdsong, smiles from neighbors, our dog eager for her morning walk. As we notice those delights, we metaphorically feel the embrace of a larger community and feel the joy from being lucky enough to be right here, right now, plop in the middle of the mystery of it all.