Finding Joy in Dark Times

Photo by Tim Yanasak

I learned that joy can be found by accepting the circumstances that are presented and in being grateful for what I have rather than angry over what I lost.

I used to believe joy was an emotion that would wash over me in the same way that a rogue wave will wash over the rails of a sailboat in the middle of the lake on a blustery day.   It can be fierce, unexpected, uncontrollable, and soak one to the core of your being.

I don’t believe that anymore about joy.  I now believe that joy can be cultivated.  I have come to understand that the amount of joy in my life is proportional to the amount of gratitude I express; to the amount of thanks I give.

This does beg a question that has been swirling through my mind: can we find joy in the darkness we encounter.  Whenever I find a theme running through the disparate readings that I do, I try to take some time to reflect on what it may mean; to see if the universe is telling me to pay attention.  Finding joy in dark times is one of those themes I’ve been presented.

Now, I’m not a person who believes that God places obstacles in our path to mold us.  For example,  I’m not talking about the Divine testing us to find joy in the diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease in a loved one.  At age 55, my father was diagnosed with early onset of Alzheimer and I can tell you that for the next ten years I couldn’t find any joy there.  The overriding emotions I remember are ones of anger, sorrow, fear, and despair.  

During the time of my father’s illness, I tried to run away from it.  I was living in a different part of the country and only saw my dad on my annual visits “back home.”  My mother and sisters provided most of the care for him.  And when it became too much, they sorrowfully placed him in a nursing home.  I never visited him in the nursing home; understanding that he wouldn’t know me and that I would walk away angry and heartbroken.  A couple of times – when talking about my dad - I would slip and say “he’s in a funeral home” when what I meant to say was that he was in a nursing home.

My dad died more than 30 years ago.  I wish I had leaned more into my sense of anger and despair over his illness instead of running away from it.  I wish I had the introspection to understand that I was making my dad’s malady about how it affected me and how it robbed me of spending my adult years with the man I so dearly loved.

I’m in a different place now.  Thirty years later when my mother became senile in her late 90s, I could separate my sense of loss from who she became.  It pained me to realize that she didn’t know who I was when I walked into her room – but I could still love her on her own terms.  She may not have been able to recognize me, but she was certainly gracious and wanted to ensure that I was comfortable while “visiting” her.  For her 100th birthday she celebrated each of the gifts she received, even though she didn’t recognize most of her loved ones who gave them to her.  And when she got bored she would say “this is boring.  Let’s sing” and she would lead us all into her favorite song: “You are my Sunshine”.   My sister copied the lyrics of all my mom’s favorite songs so we would have a ready repertoire and be able to sing with her. 

We did this because we loved her.  We did this because we were grateful for the love she showed throughout our lives.  I found joy in my mother’s impatience and readiness to sing.  I found joy in her graciousness and overriding sense of hospitality.

Having abandoned my father in his illness, I learned that joy can be found by accepting the circumstances that are presented and in being grateful for what I have rather than angry over what I lost.
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And so today, I practice seeking joy by expressing my gratitude to the people and things I encounter daily.  I am grateful for the sun on a cold winter day.  I am grateful for the smell of the leaves when I rake them to the curb.  I am grateful for my loved ones who remind me daily that life is about loving what is in front of you and not pining over what is missing.