Roads to Joy

Oh! The peonies are out in full floral abundance, this morning. Acquired as tightly wrapped buds from the grocery store, as one does, they sat in water along with the luscious-smelling stocks, and gradually began to unveil themselves.

When I came down this morning, all I could think of was: exuberance! Behold, world, this is me! Nothing modest about this display.

I guess we don’t like to exhibit unseemly exuberance, ourselves, except in the very restricted areas where we’re allowed, like the exhibitions of delight after a striker scores a brilliant goal on the football pitch. That’s exuberance carried on to an art form: it often seems to me that our grandson spends more time practising his celebration antics than he does kicking the ball!

But you wouldn’t find a solo artist doing a cartwheel, or dashing across the stage to slide a dozen meters on her knees over the polished floor, after finishing her soul-stirring aria, now would you? No, a modest curtsy or bow, an acknowledged receipt of applause, a broad smile of course, must be the extent of exuberant delight with a project accomplished well. It can even be embarrassing to receive commendation — I know I’m terrible at that, always wanting to deflect it somehow.

But exuberant joy, hmmm. We really should be able to indulge that human delight, when it happens, especially if it’s rare. Just pure joy, not self-congratulation, nor overweening pride. Just joy. Joy in living. Joy in creating. Joy in being. And what’s more, it should be infectious, so others can share without feeling left out. The football strikers engage the whole crowd in celebration, after all.

Until I manage to develop a capacity to express my own personal joy better, so that it can be shared, I shall have to let the exuberant peonies do the job for me.