Joy is Oxygen

Creating a life infused with joy right in the middle of the hard

I have twenty minutes before the bus comes bumping down the hill to the end of our gravel driveway.

Twenty minutes before my 3 middle kiddos cross the road to meet me, faces turned toward me and home after a busy day of learning, playing, creating and being out in the world.

My five year old will slip her hand into mine and lean in for a hug, weary and ready for mama after a day of Kindergarten. My nine and ten year old boys will toss me a hello and a request for a popsicle or freezie, eager to shrug off their backpacks and relax into the freedom of the after school hours.

I’ll go pick up my littlest one at daycare, arms out to meet her as she runs to me with joyful relief. I am her favourite person in the world, and I love every part of that.

We will collect my teenager on the way home, and she will sit in the passenger seat beside me, full of presence, complex emotions, observations and unpredictably entertaining or snarky comments.

I have been intentionally carving out these days for myself about once a week - quiet, microbits of alone time in the midst of a relationally rich, sensory-saturated semester of motherhood.

Photo by Sixteen Miles Out on Unsplash

A few months ago, I was desperate for some margin to be able to process and feel again; to remember who I am, understand how I’ve grown and sink deep into that identity. I needed to plant myself in the path of joy and curiosity and inspiration; not wait for them to find me but instead seek them out, purposely cultivating the a soil in which they can thrive. It took an abundance of tears and fear and encouragement from my husband and therapist to just do it. Take the time and own it. So now, I am a stay at home mom for six days of the week and then this one other day, I am a stay at home mom with a wee bit of extra space to think a complete thought, do something luxurious like take a bath or sit down and write.

Do you ever hear a quote or idea that makes you hit pause on your inner dialogue? That’s what happened to me the first time I heard these words on a podcast as I was driving.

"Joy is the oxygen for doing hard things in the world." -Gary Haugen

I reached out and pressed the pause button on my phone, mulling over the words.

Joy is the oxygen for doing hard things in the world.

Something about this felt holy. It resonated deep inside me. I repeated the phrase aloud, feeling the words fall from my lips in curious contemplation.

I’ve been gasping for breath; the past few years have left me low on emotional, mental and spiritual oxygen. Chronic tension held in my chest cavity, the steady decrease of my tolerance for sensory stimuli, disrupted sleep and intrusive thought patterns that slowly crept their way into my normalcy. Joy has felt elusive. Oxygen, the freedom to breathe deeply and confidently, was shape-shifting and cagey as I tried to pin it down.

If joy is the oxygen that keeps us moving through the hard seasons of life, what does it look like to cultivate joy in my life? How do I seek out beauty - hunt for it - and follow those threads of curiosity so that I start to live a life that is intentionally full and satisfying?

Photo by Nienke Broeksema on Unsplash

What brings me joy?

Do I know?

And if I do, how do I learn to give myself permission to revel in these things? Not just permission but enthusiastic encouragement to make time and space?

I talked about all of this in therapy. Slowly, through conversations and trial and error and deliberate, bold choices I started to find the pieces of my soul.

I found it in nature - watching the birds at my birdfeeder and listening to their songs, wondering if they’ve really always been there and I just never paid any attention or if turning thirty-five somehow awakened my inner bird enthusiast. How could I have missed those lovely trills and warbles? I laugh at my own delight in the goldfinches and chickadees that scatter sunflower seeds all over my deck, but also secretly savor this little piece of a quieter, more mature version of myself. My teenager teases me about being an “old lady” as she often does and for the first time, I kind of feel it starting to ring true in all the best ways. Some wisdom and gentling seems to be seeping in.

Photo by Mark Olsen on Unsplash

I feel it in my feet as I walk barefoot across the grass and through the garden; in my hands as I dig in the dirt and pluck out weeds. The sunlight streaming in filtered waves through my bedroom window at 6am cajoles me out from under my covers and into each new day. I find it in the warm, sweetly Spring air that greets me as I walk out the driveway with my kids each morning to wait for the bus. Nature is joy’s most dependable messenger.

I find joy’s quiet presence in my turndown routine at bedtime as I light candles, turn on soft music, make my bed and pull out my computer or journal to write in.

I find it in the minutes I spend on the couch, Bible and journal in hand, poring over promises and psalms and instruction and encouragement. Light for the dark. Reassurance for the doubts and self condemnation. Healing for the wounds of living in an unkind world.

I find joy in the disarming, gentle lull of a soft and nostalgic fiction book.

Joy bubbles up inside of me each morning as I build in a new routine - morning chores on our little farm. My toddler and I amble through the farmyard after the big kids have climbed onto the bus for the day. The pace of her little legs is the perfect cue for my body to ease into a new day - slow and soft. We open the chicken and duck coops, watching them pick their way down the coop ramp and into the enclosure, their feathers gleaming in the morning sunshine. We check on the baby bunnies and their mama, taking time for a quick snuggle before moving on to the horses in the field. I call out, “Good morning,” and my little girl mimics me as the horses trot toward us with a whinny and toss of their heads, eager for the hay we have toted from the barn.

Photo by Anzhela Bets on Unsplash

Joy comes as quiet reassurance and a surge of peaceful confidence as I say “no.” My best yes in place of cluttered and chaotic good work frenzy tastes like freedom. I can choose these pieces of my life. I don’t have to sit and let it all just happen to me. One wholesome yes often requires a myriad of other moments where one must forgo other opportunities.

I dare to dream again, and there’s so much joy in the space where my heart opens up to new ideas and future ambitions, whether small or large. It’s hope, I realize.

I end each day with Rose, Bud & Thorn with a friend via text messaging - contemplating on the sweet spots, the curiosity, the wonderings and stress points of the day in hindsight. I practise being kind to myself and honest with her. I practise allowing the emotions I feel to hold space and breathe through radical acceptance of what is instead of the furious attempts to shape and mold and control, which I more naturally fall into.

A few months into these purposeful habits and patterns, I am feeling more like myself than I have in a long time.

There is space to breathe, most days.

Joy - like oxygen - has revitalized me.

I am noticing beauty, generally sleeping through the night and dreaming again.

The hard is still right here. The laundry list of reasons for anxiety keeps growing. Many things are unresolved, unfixed, untethered…

But I’m ok.

I’m learning how to walk in this tension of being ok even when there are many reasons not to be ok.

I’m also learning to be ok with not being ok,

with wanting to be ok when I am not,

and noticing all those realities with gentle curiosity and compassion.

I guess that’s faith.

Faith; the act of trusting my Father despite all the reasons that would suggest that to be absurd. The sense of substance I rest in that resembles calm or maybe a lull in the waves.

Here they come - three of my sweetest joys in life.

A girl with green eyes and a spirit just like her mama’s.

A boy with the kind of energy that lights a room on fire and freckles splayed across his nose.

Another boy with a little skip in each step and the kind of conscientous effort that makes your heart hurt a bit.

I’m ready.

The quiet has recentred me and it feels so good to welcome them home.

We’ll find our way.

-AF

Note: The reflections shared here are those of the author and do not necessarily represent the views or positions of CareImpact.