Wednesday, September 5, 2012

September 5 - Evening

I've had such an interesting afternoon.

Not that I've.... uh... done all that much, actually. Mostly, I've just been trolling through old emails, responding to people who wrote me several weeks ago (back when I couldn't actually read the emails I was receiving). And I've come across the most delightful things: family (and work friends) pictures, funny stories, beautiful sentiments and one of the most incredible articles I've ever read.

It's an article that dissects the subtle (and glaring) differences in happiness and joy. Now, don't get me wrong... I do looooove to be happy. But I have found that joy is what I live for, and I don't know that the process of finding/experiencing joy has ever been outlined so well, with such beautiful imagery. Please bear with me as I copy and paste some of my favorite excerpts. (Here is the link if you want to read the full thing.)

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On the first of July, as the minutes ticked toward midnight, I stood at the edge of the country. I faced east, gazing out over a dark and undulating Atlantic.


And I held my breath.

Because hundreds of miles northward a vast thundercloud throbbed with orange pulses of energy, and jagged bolts of lightning showered the horizon. From a distance, it was quiet, but violent and powerful and breath-taking.

And at the same time, the sky above me was star-scattered and, from the south, a full moon bathed the beach in a gentle glow.

In one direction—violence and destruction. In the other direction—tranquility and beauty. And me. Standing in the middle of it.

Alone.

The beach was empty. On the fluorescently-lit boardwalk several hundred yards away, throngs of tourists licked ice cream and ate funnel cake and pushed quarters into arcade games.

Distracted.

They were enjoying the classic American holiday weekend. Last week, Americans spent three billion dollars celebrating the holiday. Three billion dollars on gas, and burgers, and soda-pop, and sparklers. I contributed more than my fair share.

But I wonder if all of us were settling?

I wonder if we settle for happy things on the boardwalk of life.

You see, happiness is all about circumstance and situation. It’s all about orchestrating events so life is comfortable and pleasurable and fun. Happiness is what happens when all the tumblers fall into place and life just clicks.

It’s sitting on the front porch on a perfect June evening with plenty of money in the bank account. It’s the right job coming along at the right time. It’s your kid walking down the aisle in a cap and gown with a full-ride scholarship, or your daughter walking down the aisle in a completely different kind of gown to take the hand of a guy you actually like.

Happiness is winning lottery tickets, and good luck, and serendipity, and pinch-me-I-must-be-dreaming.

Happiness is the perfect ice cream cone on the boardwalk, with fireworks on the way and a long beach week with cloudless skies ahead of you.

Happiness is sweet.

And we’re drawn to it like moths.

And why wouldn’t we be? Happiness goes down easy.


But happiness is always fleeting. Because circumstances change.

The furnace goes out and the roof springs a leak, and suddenly the financial margin evaporates. Or the new boss is a disaster. Or the kid comes home after a semester at college because the pressure got to him first and the amphetamines got to him next.

Happiness is an ice cream cone that melts, leaving you with sticky fingers and a constant hunger for more.

But Joy.

Joy is a place inside every circumstance. It’s a constant place, and it feels like peace, and it gives hope, and it looks like love, but it is more than all of these things, and words will always fail it.

And the place of joy is waiting for us.

But there’s a catch:

It only exists smack in the middle of the lightning and the moonlight. In fact, the place of joy in us cannot exist independent of the storms in life, because joy is the peace that comes from looking right into the storm and feeling freedom from it.

Joy is the place we stumble upon when we look our deepest pain and greatest fear directly in the eyes, and we refuse to flinch. It’s the place we stumble upon when we decide pain and fear aren’t going to be the final word. It’s the place where we anchor ourselves in something more than the vicissitudes of our material existence. It’s the place of freedom inside every situation, where we realize the things that are happening to us are losing their power to control us and define us.

Joy is not the answer to hardship. Rather, it is the birth of an entirely new way to experience the pain and the fear and the sorrow itself. Joy is watching the lightning-violence and trusting there is moonlight-peace just over our shoulder.

Joy is lightning and moonlight, all at once.

Joy is not knowing where the next meal will come from, yet hearing the laughter of your children and allowing yourself to be fed by it. Joy is the chaos of a toddler and newborn twins and a husband who just left you, and a knock on the door from a friend. Joy is sitting in the doctor’s office while the cancer grows, and deciding to love the stranger next to you anyway, with a comforting word and a smile. Joy is walking alone and lonely down a crowded city street and suddenly feeling yourself surrounded and joined by the millions of stories being lived every day. Joy is standing in the middle of the street during a historic blizzard, and shouting at it in defiance.

If we’re going to live, really live, we have to choose to stand in the middle of the lightning and the moonlight, because that’s where joy is found. That’s where we find peace and freedom from the pain and fear, in the midst of the pain and fear.


And that kind of joy gives birth to meaning and beauty. It will be more terrifying than ice cream. But it will be vastly more joyful than funnel cake.

What ice-cream-cones-of-life are you licking?

Where is the dark beach of your life? Are you ready to step off the boardwalk and go there?

Because there will be lightning waiting, but there will also be moonlight.

And in the middle of it all?

Joy.

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A big, fat thank you goes out to Dr. Kelly Flanagan, for having written such a poetic description (and definition) of the differences in happiness and joy. Another sincere and heartfelt thank you goes to my favorite Walnuts for having passed it along to me back in July, when I was very much in the place between the lightening and the moonlight.

I testify that there is nothing that can bring peace to your heart in the way that tribulation can. I know, from my own life experience, that true peace can only be felt in the place between staring down your darkest fear and knowing that, somehow, someway, you are still safe.

I repeat,

Joy is the place we stumble upon when we look our deepest pain and greatest fear directly in the eyes, and we refuse to flinch. It’s the place we stumble upon when we decide pain and fear aren’t going to be the final word. It’s the place where we anchor ourselves in something more than the vicissitudes of our material existence. It’s the place of freedom inside every situation, where we realize the things that are happening to us are losing their power to control us and define us.

Having had to live with (and fight) the cancer has been the hardest, most difficult thing I've ever had to do in my life. Six weeks of radiation put me down so low that I wondered, for months, when I would start to feel normal again. (It's been almost two years, and I'm still waiting, btw.) Three cancer-related surgeries in a 24 month span have wreaked havoc on my body. I ache and have scar tissue in places that were heretofore unimaginable.

It has been hard. Seriously hard.

And I wouldn't trade the experience for the world. (That's right, not even for the name of Mrs. Nathan Fillion.)

Having had to surrender my will to not have another surgery to the reality of "do it or die" has been good for my control-freak soul. Having had to come to terms with the dietary and physical limitations of my body has been difficult, but when I weigh these limitations against where I have been, I know that I am blessed to be where I am. Having had to rely on the kindness of my friends and family to fiscally and emotionally survive this last surgical round has changed me.

I have always been aware that I lead a charmed life. I have always known that I have been blessed. I have always been happy. I would even be so bold as to say that I have always had joy in my life.

But the cancer changed me. It redefined me. It gave me an opportunity to choose how I would act in the face of pain and fear. It shook my life up and moved my priorities around, and I will be eternally grateful for the experience.

I live in this weird space right now, smack between hating the cancer and loving it for the life experience that it gave me.

(That having been said, I'd be more than happy not to ever see its ugly face again. ... Also, I'd like to start signing Nathan's last name on my checks. Do you think either or both of those could be arranged?)