Any Joy Will Do

Few things are more satisfying to me than the vast, unlimited workspace of a new MS Word document, untarnished by any mark except for a blinking cursor. It winks at me at regular intervals as if to say “Now?...Ok, how about now?...Please can we now please please please”; a fine substitute for a clean, well-lighted space, and a canvas that can be filled or cleared with the touch of a key. I get excited when I see it, as if it were Christmas in a world in which I actually liked Christmas.

But this is about neither MS Word nor Christmas. This is about joy. Pure, unadulterated joy.

Where does one find this elusive quality? C.S. Lewis had a thing or two to say about that. My humble offering is dross by comparison, but he’s gone on to his Great Divorce and so I shall not have to risk his rebuttal.

Joy is completely subjective! This concept has excited me since I figured out its relative truth, which is in itself a sort of joy. But before knowing where to find it, it is necessary to define it, or risk not recognizing it when it oozes winsomely across one’s path, as it is wont to do. Joy is tricky and likes to hide.

I found joy while painting eleven yards of silk ribbon in variegated colors one evening last week. I cut the ribbon spool into 5 feet sections and stretched it across my kitchen from utility rack to cupboard, using rubber bands, safety pins, and hair claws (WWMD?). My kitchen looked like Shelob’s Lair when I was finally ready to paint, but when I stepped back to consider a plan of attack, it hit me square between the eyes: I get to turn white ribbon into w h a t e v e r c o l o r I w a n t ! ! ! Right at my elbow, on the counter, competing for space with unwashed dishes was a box of 12 luscious dyes with which to create innumerable shades and tints upon simple strips of silk. I painted for about three hours and had more fun than was reasonable for a woman my age. I felt like a messy child with a box of Crayola watercolors, cheap white paper and a waterproof dropcloth. It doesn’t even matter that my project turned out great – oh, the beautiful ribbon! – what matters is that I tapped a great big keg o’ joy right there in my dirty kitchen instead of cleaning it and making dinner like I “should” have (I ordered pizza).

What shall I do with the product of my joy? Why, I will wind and weave it into wondrously wild bouquets with which to decorate a silk charmeuse pillowcase (deep periwinkle, once I’ve joy’d it) for my niece’s 10th birthday. I wonder if she will feel it as she sleeps, and have beautiful dreams? I hope so.

Maybe I am goofy, sappy, and simple minded to be so thrilled by the process of painting ribbon. My mind is sharp, I am fashionably complicated, and it should take more than this to get me off. But in the end, the colors almost made me cry, and it’s a little easier now to understand why God even bothers.

Whatever. I bought more ribbon. This joy stuff is addictive.