Joy

Joy is ascendant. It is the other-worldly experience of the dove that appears suddenly, floats down to you and with its beak gently pulls away the bonds that tether you. You feel yourself rise and only then realize you’d been bound.

Joy is transcendent. Whatever else was happening on that day or at that moment falls away. You are transported. You are caught up in this thing, this event, this announcement, this realization, this sight for beleaguered eyes as you feel your heart wrapped in warmth, your face alight with the glow of it.

A colleague I worked with years ago used to say that life, to him, was mostly a series of mundane days filled with work, responsibility, and the cares and problems of the day-to-day routine, with occasional moments of great joy, such as the birth of a child. But these moments, he said, were extremely rare, so we should simply soldier on, getting through life as best we can, grateful for those rare opportunities in which to find happiness—though that happiness was fleeting indeed.

I found his cynicism dismaying in light of the fact that he often reminded his circle of friends that he was a man of God, an evangelical Christian who knew exactly what would happen to him when he died. Then, at that time, he would experience true joy.

Well. I guess he’s more patient than I am.

I’ll take my joy now, thank you very much, in this morning’s slow and steady sunrise that was accompanied by movie-trailer-perfect birdsong which rose to a steady crescendo as Thomas and I stood, looking down to the lake, a great blue heron just waking. The first rays of sun hit his wing feathers and lit the copper highlights there. He was so beautiful I nearly cried.

Last week, as Thomas and I hiked in Bogart Park at the same hour, just after sunrise, we took a left instead of a right on a trail we’ve often walked—and we discovered a new trail we hadn’t tried before, one that led up a ridge, then down into a canyon, then around a large meadow. Wildflowers—blue and yellow and red—dotted the sides of the trail as we walked together. I could have brought home an enormous bouquet… but I let them live, as I was living in that moment, able, still, to walk two miles with my dog at dawn, to breathe deeply, to sense the sun’s warmth on my back through my jacket. On our return, we came upon a small herd of deer. As we strolled silently around a shaded bend in the trail, there they all were, heads up, looking at us as we looked at them. No one moved. The air was still and quiet. Their enormous dark eyes showed only curiosity, not fear, so Thomas and I lingered (as he leaned into my leg, unsure of what these creatures were). Finally, we inched carefully away down the trail, and the deer dropped their heads and went back to grazing.

Thank you, Universe, for the sheer joy in that moment of tranquility.

It has been my experience that these moments of joy are not few and far between. They’re right out there, waiting. We simply have to make ourselves available.

Madness Dancing

Since mid-November, I have been, er, under the weather. Ill in some way, certainly, but not exactly "sick," as I would characterize it. The week before this malady began, I had some dental work (a crown), and I had a flu shot. Three days after the shot, I woke feeling dizzy, achy and with a mild headache. I took a nap that day—and slept three hours. Despite having slept eight hours the night before, I was still so sleepy after three hours of napping it was all I could do to get up and take Thomas out. It was chilly in the house, but I woke feeling clammy, as if I'd been sweating.

"Dang," I thought, "this is quite the reaction to that damn flu shot. Thank goodness it will go away in a couple of days."

But it didn't. After the symptoms persisted for four weeks (cold sweats, daily dizziness, headaches and a profound need to sleep excessively—rivaling the number of hours I slept when I was pregnant), I made an appointment to see my doctor. By the time I saw her, I'd narrowed my own diagnosis down to either Lyme disease or a brain tumor.

Dr. V. ordered a CT scan, so no, I don't have a brain tumor. I do have a brain that shows "no abnormalities." (Comment on that as you will.)

After a second appointment, here's what I know:

I don't have BPPV (Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo) or at least it doesn't seem so.

This is not a neurological problem—or at least it doesn't seem so.

This is not West Nile Virus—or at least the doc doesn't think so.

It's not got to do with my hypo-thyroidism.

There's no infection in my system, apparently (according to blood tests).

I probably don't have cancer. (Yay!)

I don't need new glasses (as Harry R. suggested).

This probably won't go away if I "relax enough" (as Harry C. suggested).

I'm not dehydrated.

The symptoms worsen dramatically when I don't nap or if I become overly fatigued.

I'm only posting all that so that the sleuths among you can get busy thinking and come to some conclusion that would be a possible diagnosis. (Go ahead. Have at it. Please click on "comments" below to offer your two cents.)

Anyway, my life has gone on unabated—thank the Universe. I'm still walking my dog (though I try not to get too far out in the boonies lest I keel over and Thomas has to find his way home alone), still writing, still feeling blessed for having the ability to sing (but not dance because, yeah, too dizzy).

And today I transplanted a tree. A week ago I mowed the lawn, a chore that hadn't been done in many weeks as I just didn't trust my body with the task. Today I felt good enough (albeit somewhat dizzy) to dig up the orange tree that the previous owner had planted on the shady side of the house. Now it will have more sun and more love and some prayers that it will re-root itself and finally grow some oranges. If nothing else, it will give all my little backyard birds a place to sit while they're taking turns at the feeder.

Since my days of wooziness began, I've had a song off Rick Shea's new album ("The Town Where I Live") stuck in my head: "Trouble Like This." It's a catchy tune, but I think it's been on repeat in my mind because these multiple doctor visits with no resolution remind me of the fall of 2012; it took three months before my bronchiectasis was diagnosed. (And that only happened because I insisted that my doctor order an MRI of my lungs. "Okay," she said, throwing up her hands, "if that's what you want." Yes, humor me, please. And what do you know? The MRI revealed the holes in my lungs.)

Rick Shea at a recent concert.

Today, though, my brain worm switched from Rick's song to a song by Bob Bennett, "Madness Dancing," from his "Matters of the Heart" album. Lordy, I love this song! And I have for nearly forty years. Consider these lyrics:

In the middle of this madness I am dancing

Though I'm not sure why just now

I tried to be sober, tried to be logical

But I could not stop my feet.

I know I haven't turned off my mind...

I know there's evil all around

But for now it's outside, and I am in my room

Joy is like a crashing tide.

I don't wanna burn no books

Don't wanna argue rock 'n roll

I don't wanna shoot anyone with my high-powered doctrine gun....

That's pretty non-judgmental for a man who professes to be an evangelical Christian.

At any rate, it's the crashing tide of joy and the madness of dancing despite all the dire woes in life that make me love this song and sing it again and again. Especially right now. I may not be in top form physically, but I am still so blessed to be alive—whether I can dance right now or not.