On a good, random Tuesday in the middle of a holiday-less season, I’m not the type of person who has the energy for cuteness. I don’t cut crusts from my children’s sandwiches (nay, I rarely feed them sandwiches, so bread alone is a cause for celebration around here, #aimlowparenting), let alone cookie-cutter them into fun shapes.
My driving force has always been utility. Functionality. Efficiency. Be it from wiring or training, I love a well-oiled machine, a process that works. When all children’s coats get hung on the correct coat hanger, you shall see this woman dance mightily. Sheer happiness.
But let me tell you about a few other people. My friend Brownwyn is killing it with that shelf-sitting elf. Ingenuity! Hilarity! Bronwyn is also not much for crust-cutting, but this time of year she breaks out all the props. Why? Because her daughter loves it and because it is fun.
Another friend, Kristen, has regularly engaged in 25 Days of Christmas, activities for her 2 little ones as simple as reading a story or putting glow sticks in a bath tub or as elaborate as decorating one another as a Christmas tree. Her kids love it – and she loves it. (She shares her pro-tip: gather all supplies early, put them in a tub and store in the basement. Reuse each year, altering just a few. Then you’re not daily trying to make sure you have all the necessary supplies. She really is a genius.)
And then there’s my friend, Jill and her sidekick Teagan. They just took 75 wiley little girls, covered them in glitter, and taught them how to shahsay across the stage to extremely old classical music. They had to manage ticket sales and disappointed parents who couldn’t get enough seats. They had to carry couches and recruit husbands and big brothers. They had to pin hats onto toy soldiers and at one point I saw Miss Jill collecting tickets herself.
The entire production made no money for either woman – based on the level of gorgeousness of the costumes, it probably took a bit of personal financial investment beyond what they gave to hours of choreographing, hemming, steaming, marking the stage, and reminding our little princesses to smile.
And why in the world would anyone embark on such an endeavor, completely devoid of functionality or efficiency? Sure, we can make a list of soft skills these girls come away with – confidence, getting over stage fright, the work ethic of learning the parts – but are those the things behind the 87 pounds of sequins? I can hardly imagine it so.
Miss Jill remarked more than once that this was a dream of hers, a favorite show, and to create her own rendition – specifically using 3- and 4-year-old Snowflakes – is a feat of strength. It brought joy to the girls in the production and it lit up her own joy to see it play out on a stage.
Joy is a concept I keep returning to, because it’s something that doesn’t make sense yet is completely necessary for a fulfilling life. Joy doesn’t work itself into a spreadsheet; it cannot be counted. None of the women I’ve been watching are attempting any awards or seeking admiration for their efforts. They simply love something, they love doing it, they love the response from those who are engaged – namely, children, who still have space for magic in their lives.
Our response to watching such joy can go a few directions. We can compare and compete, putting ourselves as the “less than loosers” who simply cannot live up to such high standards. All the nay-saying folk on the sidelines tend to feel like my good-hearted and holiday-energized friends are out to prove something to others. But, psssst…. I have a secret. They’re not.
Their joy has nothing to do with us.
Unless we want to share in it with them.
And in that case, all of these women would say the same thing: the more, the merrier.
Joy is something that enlivens and warms and welcomes and there’s really no stopping it unless it’s our own personal pride and sense of worth. But if you can get around those things, you can join me in a seat at the Star theater, dripping with tears to know that someone believed something to be beautiful enough to be worth so much time, money, and energy, and she even invited my girls to join alongside.
Joy isn’t competitive and there is no bottom line to joy. We won’t max out. Someone’s joy at placing an elf in yet another comical position will not – I repeat, will not – suck all the joy out of your little joy-pocketbook. They’re not frivolously spending the world’s joy, leaving less for you and me. In fact, their efforts at merriment are multiplying the joy in the world, or at least in my home.
Because even if I don’t get an elf or glow sticks or spend 927 hours creating a ballet, I am reminded that joy is right here, present to me, if I reach for it. No one is keeping it from me, unless it’s me. In fact, each of these joyful endeavors feel like a personal invitation – not to do everything they do, but to feel inspired to make more space for joy in my own life, but my own version.
Perhaps joy is a bit like the big man in red we’re still praying the oldest can find belief in: you only receive if you believe.