We don’t live in a world that praises sustained joy. At least I don’t. Perhaps such a thing exists in aboriginal cultures or any place where profit is not the end all. Here, we measure joy not by length but by level. Nothing is ever good enough. Our goal in life is primarily to chase that next high. Like video games? Level up. Get to that next season where everything is new (but not really new). Each of us profit off of joy in some fashion and because of that joy is cyclical. It is filled with micro transactions that wear on your wallet as much as they wear out your soul. We are all addicts chasing that brief joy high.
Recently, someone close to my partner passed. I met this woman and felt in her a connection to that kernel of joy that has always existed in me. Her joy, like mine, was not about the chase. It was an internal flame. Mine once took the form of a dancing stick figure–one who I could see in my minds eye and always remind myself that despite whatever conditions the world threw my way, I’d always have that small bit of joy grinding out a few solid dance moves in my inner sanctum.
It’s been a long time since I thought about that little man. It’s been a long time since I looked inward for joy. I am, as a result, dissatisfied. That is what our culture wants me to be. Satisfaction breeds complacency. You buy less when you’re happy. You need less. When we need less the economy cannot grow off of us and the economy must continue to grow as though it were that mythical beast, rough and slouching towards Bethlehem and never to be born and never to see its own hour come for that would represent an end of something–a singularity of purpose beyond wealth, and we cannot see to get there.
I miss being joyful. I miss feeling safe in my own skin and habits. In the meanwhile, on to the next hit.