"Joy is not to be made a crumb"

I’ve lately been finding, feeling joy in sweet, quotidian, small (“small”) moments. Waking in a comfortable bed. Holding the littlest homegrown strawberry in my hand. Seeing a heavenly summer sunset crack open the sky over Bern, Switzerland. Appreciating a whole tour group in Bruges admire how my dad, the self-made history buff, got every answer the guide posed on our tour, correct, and then some. (Beer was invented in Mesopotamia! Cacao comes from the Aztecs, and did you know they had no sugar, instead using cinnamon to sweeten it?)

It’s been in this time of small joys that a friend shared this perfect Mary Oliver poem, “Don’t Hesitate,” below. Don’t hesitate. Give in to joy.

“Don’t Hesitate” by Mary Oliver

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate.

Give in to it.

There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be.

We are not wise, and not very often kind.

And much can never be redeemed.

Still, life has some possibility left.

Perhaps this is its way of fighting back,

that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world.

It could be anything,

but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins.

Anyway, that’s often the case.

Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty.

Joy is not made to be a crumb.

Related thoughts I’ve shared:

Joy is a Practicality

The Little Things are the Big Things

Stir the air

I arrived to my Airbnb in Bordeaux yesterday, which is in the historic part of the city right by the theater, where I heard the choir practicing this afternoon and my jaw dropped in awe.

My host informed me that my place is without air conditioning; installation is not allowed in the historic part of the city. Still, the stone building keeps cool, and she left me instructions for how to keep it temperate during the day, and then refresh it at night. “At night, open everything and stir the air with the fan.”

So, I am here, back at home before going out to a cafe to write a bit more, after stopping on a quiet, tree-lined plaza, (“place” in French) on my slow way home after a high-energy spin class and a walk to an outdoor market, the fan gently blowing. I am stirring the air, and then staying still. Stirring, and stillness.

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For Sam, who I am so happy to be visiting here in Bordeaux!

Start where you are

I haven’t written in a while—all of the month of April, I now see—and here we are. I don’t wish I had done it, or regret not doing it, or anything. It just is what it is; it was what it was. And that makes it right.

I got quite sick during that time, the sickest I’ve ever been, at the end of which one friend reflected back to that I sounded so “raw,” that the whole experience sounded so raw. It was, in so many ways. And I am so grateful for my health, so grateful to be better. I also had my family in town for a week after that, which did wonders for my recovery and was so nice. Really so nice. It was the first time in a long time we were all able to be somewhere together (their lovely Airbnb) for a stretch of time and just enjoy each other’s company and being together. I miss having them here. And I am so grateful they were able to come. I also went to Coachella, and Napa, and said goodbye to my long-time manager at work and started on a new team and am preparing for a big move (it’s all already happening, as they say, as I’d say, as I remind myself) and a departure, a leave, from things as I know them right now. I am excited, it feels right, and it is all still a process. A process that sometimes calls for stillness, and other times calls for action, like selling and giving away almost everything I own: a literal practice in letting go.

I wanted to write here tonight and I didn’t know what to write, even with all the drafts saved here, even with all the notes in my phone like, “Live the width of your life,” which Bozoma Saint John shared in a talk at Google for International Women’s Day. Start where you are, came the quiet reminder. Yes, that. Start where you are, and right now, I am right here. Writing this, and letting it be it.

Here in the forever present

You know when you really start to understand something on a deeper level, when it’s not just a thought in your head?

For me, I can feel it dropping into my body, the escalator in my head going down into my being, and even—when it really hits—becoming a way of being. In the past couple days, that integration has been around the concept of the forever present: that all we ever have, all we ever are (so, everything!) is right here, right now. That even when we’re remembering, even when we’re imagining, even when it feels like we’re stretching beyond time and place, we’re still here in the present. And that feeling, feeling into that concept now, feels so freeing. Everything in the forever present.

I’m not the type of person

I remember reading one of comedian Chelsea Handler’s memoirs during one high school summer, and her saying, through a story of a dinner party, that people who say “I’m the type of person who…” or, “I’m not the type of person who..” are usually the exact opposite of what they’re saying. I found it insightful and funny, and it made me more aware of when I say it—and also when other people say it.

I played these games with myself throughout heavier times of quarantine to stretch my brain or whatever a little, like eating with my non-dominant hand in attempt to become more ambidextrous (it’s kind of working!). One of them was to put a moratorium on “I am” phrases. Like, what would happen to my sense of identity and self, as well as my habits and thoughts, if I wasn’t labeling myself based on past patterns and expectations dragged in from the past, and just let myself be? Honestly, it felt very freeing!

In fact, I may try this again today. And this time, I think I’ll play with extending it more to those around me. Like how may people show up, what may our interactions be, when it’s just us in that moment, rather than past ideas or conceptions of them? Of us?

Who do I want to be?

Halloween is in the air and on the mind because it’s Friday night of Halloweekend and I’m going to a friend’s birthday soon. It’s such a fun energy and time, always—a time where we all get to ask ourselves, who do I want to be? Or, what? And get to ask each other, What are you going to be??

Of course I’ve made this spiritual/philosophical/whatever over dinner just now, and realized that often when I check in with myself, whether in reflection, like journaling, or preparation, like heading into a meeting, day or outing, I’m asking myself: Who do I want to be? Who do I want to be in this moment, how do I want to be? How do I want to show up?

So, boo, Halloween is kind of all the time and this little note is my way of reminding myself. And I like that idea; it makes the possibility and impermanence of a holiday where you can be anything for a time feel like forever fun.

How can I sink, even more, into the moment?

This last trip (Barcelona, Ibiza, Malta, Munich for Oktoberfest, a dream!) reminded me of how putting ourselves into new contexts, places and spaces is really sooo beneficial to developing ourselves more, and solidifying one’s sense of self—especially when it’s some new aspect of ourselves and identity. We get to put more into practice and play, whether by invitation, like when introducing ourselves to strangers (who do we want to be? How do we want to be?), or, perhaps, by a little bit of force, like when sprinting through an airport to make a connection. (Just because I’m moving quickly doesn’t mean I have to become stressed about it, and that realization was new and nice! Also, we made it.)

One thing that I was interested to be with on this trip was my personal shift to no longer drinking alcohol, really; like more than a drink here or there. I was going to a bachelorette party in Ibiza and Munich for Oktoberfest, after all, and I was curious to see how I would feel. It’s a change I felt called to make a little over a year ago when I moved from NYC to LA, and realized that I just didn’t really like how I felt physically or mentally because of it. I wanted to feel good, and I wanted to be as present as possible to my life.

Over the past year I’ve gotten more comfortable not drinking in certain contexts, and I’ve realized no one really cares. (Or even knows, especially when you’re holding a sparkling water with lime.) Rather, people are often very supportive and even curious. My close friends in LA don’t drink much, and even on the bachelorette trip, 1/4 of the people there weren’t drinking and it was totally cool, fun and easy.

Throughout the trip there were a few moments where I felt a little odd about it, though I know full well those were my own slight feelings of judgment and questioning, and no one else’s. Like when everyone was toasting and I’m just, like, smiling, and wondering. should be toasting? Would that be more participatory? (We’re over “should’s,” or more over them than ever before, but sometimes they happen!) At this point, though I know well enough that those little feelings are fleeting, not worth paying much attention to, and that almost certainly no one else is even having that thought.

What was fun, though, is that I found I developed a little trick, or tool, for those moments of slight discomfort. I found myself taking a moment to look around, breathe deep and ask myself, “How can I sink even more into this moment?" As a result of thinking that simple question, I shifted more into presence, and into the present. I dropped more into my body and that place and time, exactly as they were, and could be with it all with a newfound appreciation. I saw my friends singing, laughing, sitting together in this place and in celebration, at everyone gathered there altogether, sharing this one moment, and my heart would become so full. I was so happy. And, I was out of my head.

I’ve tried it out in different contexts, too, and it always feels good, always makes things better. Like, when trying to fall asleep on the plane, when navigating a crowd in the rain, when feeling into a connection to someone new. As Caroline Myss writes about, “this day will never come again.” We’ll never be in this moment, in this way, again, so how can we be here, even more?

How can I sink even more into this moment? How can I be in this moment, even more? (Also, Oktoberfest is still super fun, still super joyous, still the best time, even without the beer. Ibiza, of course, too.)