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Reclaiming Joy through Breezes & Bare Feet

The final lesson my smashed little toe taught me was that there is more to reclaiming joy than accepting our feelings and rewriting our story. Once that goofy toe stopped throbbing, I limped to the beach. I had less than a block to go since the resort I worked at that summer was on the shore of Lake Michigan.  When I arrived, I plopped down onto the warm, dry sand, leaned back, bracing myself on my hands, and breathed in the view.

If you’ve never been to the shore of a Great Lake, don’t underestimate the scene that greeted me. The water of this sweetwater sea looked like it stretched forever. The horizon was an endless straight line where the cobalt blue of deepwater met the light blue of sky. The wind off the lake was cool and sweet. A Great Lake smells different than an ocean. To me it’s the smell of home — fresh and clean. I filled up with it, and with the coolness of wind on my cheeks, and the warmth of sand under my palms.

No thought. No words in mind. Just feeling. Just being. Utter joy.

No matter where we stand in the great debate about the nature of humanity (Are we spiritual beings having a material experience, or merely meat?), most of us would admit that the life of the flesh matters. And isn’t it wonderful that it does? It’s the material, the solid sweetness of digging our bare feet into sand or feeling the wind on our faces that ground and center us even in the worst times.

Our task, then, is to stop, look and feel. Open our eyes, ears, noses, and skin to the reality of the space we inhabit at the moment. If we can’t get out to nature, we can look up at the sky. We all know the joy of a blue sky, but even clouds can be beautiful in their delicious variations of white and gray. If we can’t see the sky, then we can look down. Is there beauty in the rocks, or an unexpected sparkle? Is there soil we can touch and explore? Or we can look around us? Can we find fascination in the feel of the wood of a desk or a chair? The sharp coolness of the metal around us? Is the aroma of the air unexpectedly delightful? Is that a bird singing or a person?

Stand or sit. See what’s in front, below, or around you. Or close your eyes and listen, sniff and feel. Come into the moment and rest.

This image of Lake Michigan is from tmannis via pixabay. Thanks!

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Reclaiming Joy by Rewriting Your Story

We live by our stories. We die by our stories. If we think kindly of ourselves and create positive narratives out of the events of our lives, then the sun shines on us no matter what’s happening in the sky. Some of us grew up with families that bestowed happy stories on us. Some of us, not so much. As we grew, we adopted our family stories, thinking that whatever our family told us about ourselves and life in general had to be true, but we don’t have to hold onto those stories. And we can learn that Mom and Dad actually didn’t know diddly squat. Whether we’re 15 years old, 25, 35, 65 or 105, we can literally rewrite our lives by changing the way we think about them.

Sometimes it’s hard to accept that. We can feel as if we’re imprisoned by an impenetrable wall of emotion. My experience, though, is that such walls are surprisingly thin and brittle. When I sit with my feelings instead of running from them, those things that looked like walls fall to dust.

So here’s my prescription for those moments when it feels like life punches us in the stomach: Rewrite the story about what happened. Every novelist is the god of her own world, deciding what happens and what it means. I recommend that we realize that we are all the writers of our own lives. We can always rewrite the narrative and change the meaning.

For example, when I smashed my little toe into that half-buried brick back in Michigan so many years ago the outcome depended on the story I told myself about it. I could have grabbed my foot, cursing and yelling in pain, and shouted at myself for being clumsy. “I’m always clumsy,” I could have said. “Why am I so stupid? Why don’t I ever pay attention?” Or, I could have grabbed my foot, cursing and yelling in pain, and said, “Ow, that hurt! I’ve gotta get ice on that!”

In the first instance, the story makes the pain worse. A simple misstep becomes an indictment of me as a human being and what started as a painful toe turns into one more piece of evidence about how I’m inadequate. In the second instance, the story is neutral when it acknowledges pain and empowering when it notes that I can make the toe feel better by icing it.

What story did I actually tell myself? I chose the neutral and empowering story. At the time I was 20 and had not yet heard about the power of reframing. But I naturally chose the positive story because I had never thought of myself as clumsy. I was blessed with a mother who liked the idea that I wanted to be an athlete. I even had the role model in my grandmother who climbed trees into her 40s.

In almost all other matters, though, I struggled. I remember telling a therapist once that my life was like a road map where every road led to the same destination: the idea that I was a horrible soul. In the past, I viewed every event in my life as proof of my awfulness. In other words, today I talk about the importance of rewriting our stories because it’s what I’ve had to learn to do. And I’ve gotten pretty good at it.

May this be the beginning of a new day for you. May you discover your inner novels. May you write the life you want.

IMAGE: Joshua Earle via Unsplash.

 

 

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Reclaiming Joy

When I was 20 and working at a resort on Lake Michigan, I happily strode along a path one perfect summer morning under a bright blue sky. The sound of waves caressed me. The cool, soft breeze ruffled my hair. I lived and breathed joy. And then from one instant to the next, joy was the furthest thing from my mind. I wore sandals that offered no protection for the outside of my foot and had forgotten the half-buried bricks lining the path. From one step to the next, I slammed my little toe into a brick. I was in the middle of a full, vigorous stride when I hit that brick. The brick didn’t give, but my toe did.

To this day I don’t know if I broke my toe. I never went to a doctor, but the outer half of my foot turned amazing shades of blue, purple and charcoal gray. Immediately after smashing that poor little toe, I hopped up and down, screaming the most incredible variety of curses I’ve ever produced. Did I say it hurt? OMG it hurt.

In the moments after toe met brick, all I knew was pain. It wasn’t like I had much choice except to feel it. I had to gut it out. In the moments after our lives meet unexpected bricks, it’s natural to feel pain. We might have lost a job, been diagnosed with the one thing we never wanted to get, seen a great love affair end, or learned about the death of a loved one. We might have flicked on our favorite device and seen images that scare us.

It makes no more sense to deny this kind of pain than it would have for me to deny my agonizing toe. Sometimes, though, we get the idea that in order to be happy we must be happy every moment of every day. Those of us seeking a spiritual path may be more likely than most folks to punish ourselves for acknowledging our pain. Aren’t we supposed to be above it all? If we believe in the Law of Attraction, we might also fear that acknowledging pain attracts more pain to us.

I don’t buy that idea, and I don’t agree that spirituality means never having to hurt. The first trick to reclaiming joy is not to numb out pain, but to move through it. For me reclaiming joy starts with surrender — surrendering to pain, fear, anger, whatever. Every time I surrender the most amazing thing happens. I’m not going to lie; it can feel awful, but if I stay with the feelings, if I let tears-curses-fear-fury flow, the storm passes, my head and heart clear, and I’m at peace.

That smashed toe taught me a lot about reclaiming joy. In the next few posts, I’m going to talk about what I know about the spirituality of joy with a little help from that toe. Join me.

IMAGE: Kazuend via Unsplash.