Greetings Joy
Advent Letters to Light
Greetings Joy,
I just returned from walking the dog one last time before bed. Looking up to the cold night sky, stars aglow yet dimmed by the lights of big city buildings and traffic, I ask the universe,
what do I know about joy?
And as audible as ambulance sirens and car alarms, I hear,
that it comes when you make room.
I was shocked to receive an answer, especially so quickly. Was it right? I decided to sleep on it. And my dreams confirmed the answer to be true.
15 years ago, my mom and I were vacationing in Florida. A really hot sunny day. Strangely, while there was little wind, the waves were so big. We left the safety of our blue and white striped umbrella cabana and went into the water. The ocean was warm—almost too warm—like freshly run bath water. The sand soft. No rocks or shells. We lost track of time playing in the waves. They knocked us over. We jumped back up. They knocked us over. We jumped back up. We laughed until we cried. Our cheeks hurt from smiling. We experienced pure joy.
What allowed us to do that? We let our guards down. Put our phones, tablets, computers, and calendars away. We gave no thought to the opinions of others. We set aside grieving, worrying, and our own self-imposed expectations of being productive and responsible. We gave ourselves permission. We intentionally made room for joy. And it was amazing!
And joy, I’m not sure I’ve made room for you quite like that again. Why? Fear.
How does joy, such a festive, glorious gift become feared? Joy, the sound of cooing babies; of toddlers blowing bubbles; of laughter on the playground; of chatter among old friends; of dancing among the crowd as rainbow confetti falls from the sky, when did we learn to be afraid of you?
There’s actually a term for it. Hedonophobia, the fear of pleasure or delight or joy. People are really afraid of experiencing joy. I’ve been one of them. Why? Perhaps because I don’t think I deserve to feel anything good. Because I’ve been told that I’m no good. Because I feel guilty. How is it okay for me to experience pleasure when so many are experiencing sadness and pain? How can I experience delight when so close to home people are facing illness and unbearable sorrow? How can I even speak of joy when difficult times are the new normal? How dare I make room for joy when creation’s sky is blanketed with the weary clouds of multiple wars?
From childhood I’ve learned about angels proclaiming in dream time messages, do not be afraid; without acknowledging the fear in the hearts of so many, without affirming all the very real reasons one might be afraid; without announcing that fear is human. The bible is so commonly taught in ways that depict fear as weakness, or lack of faith, or even sin. Joy teaches us that to simply and dismissively tell another not to fear actually induces more fear.
I remember how afraid I was to come out as lesbian and queer. I made a list of each time I told someone. When the conversation went well (or even kind of well), I put a rainbow next to their name. When it didn’t, I drew a sad face. While the page was mostly filled with rainbows, I was still fearful of each next step. I approached every day and every conversation with trepidation. I look back now to see that list as my road map to joy, specifically to a place of queer joy.
What does it mean to be queerly joyful? It means to celebrate yourself. To name yourself. To embrace all the ways you do not fit the mold society has built of what it means to be beautiful and beloved, and wondrously made. To exist between lines and outside of boxes. To show up, be present, take space. To refuse crumbs when a feast is abundantly available. To feel all the emotions. To hold in close togetherness what religion sells as incompatible. Pleasure is not dueling with shame. Delight is not in opposition to grief. Joy is not in competition with fear. To be queer is to live in a both/and reality. To reject that life is either this or that. To experience joy queerly is to make room.
Joy, you teach us that Advent is not about waiting for a world without fear, but rather the coming of gifts that empower us to live faithfully and authentically when fear is meticulously cultivated and weaponized against us.
Joy, you illuminate the face of the divine. You laugh and coo and make bubbles, mirroring the goodness of God-within-us.
Joy, you are easily shared.
Joy, you are in the moments, days and long nights, years of pandemic and isolation, generations of war and devastation reminding us that you are subversive. They wouldn’t try to squash or steal you if you had no power.
Joy, you are in the waves, playing with us, getting knocked down and jumping back up again and again.
Joy, you are the eternal ripple of letting go and diving in.
Joy, you are a respite, a renewal, an unending miracle.
Joy, you are trying new cookie recipes, the frosting on cinnamon rolls, peppermint scented lotion, watching movies where we know every line by heart, an unexpected package at the door, a phone call from a friend whose voice hasn’t been heard in decades, a new box of Legos, Santa riding a unicorn hanging front and center on the Christmas tree, and making new traditions outside of church that extend beyond religion.
Joy, you are twirling wildly at a Pink Concert. And you are the pink candle burning brightly and boldly in a wreath of purple.
Joy, you come anytime, every time we make room, in a hospital bed, a pride parade, a protest rally for reproductive rights, the heavily policed vigil for a ceasefire, a walk before bedtime with the dog, in the questions and the answers, the conversations we have with the night sky stars, and the memories reborn in our dreams.
This year I gift myself more room.
My wish for everyone and for everywhere is more room.
Joyfully yours,
Rebecca & 10 Camels
Above is your invitation to consider joy. Do you find it difficult to welcome or experience joy? What do you know about joy? Have you ever made room for joy and felt your whole world change? I’d love hear your thoughts or reflections on joy. Comment here. Or email me directly at 10camels@substack.com. I will write back.
Make room for joy. All joy needs is room. I love that! I think joy and awe are friends holding hands.