I am contemplating two decisions. I woke up this morning realizing one brought significantly more joy to me even though it is not as practical. This is a small situation and I will probably go with the joy. Joy is my word for 2017 yet when I consider sticking with the decision I am leaning toward in the major choice because it feels more joyful, it feels almost heretical. My Catholic, Puritan, hard working American conditioning nags me, telling me I am impractical, unrealistic, a dreamer. It warns me of all potential obstacles, tries to tell me failure is likely. I am watching the inner conflict with curiosity and compassion. So often in my life I have chosen the more joyful, less practical path. Yes, it comes with a price. Yet one thing I do not have to be concerned with is laying on my death bed wishing I had more courage, more fortitude. I have almost always taken the road less traveled and sometimes stew wondering if it will ever pan out, if practicality will swamp me one day. So far I am still chugging along even while doubt wants to continue to occasionally nip at my heals.
A few years ago I recognized my addiction to sugar was because I saw it as perhaps the only controllable pleasure in my life. My sensitivity made it a required course to dive into the shadow material or my life or continue to suffer. Joy was MIA for so long. To now have it reemerge as a trusty barometer for choices in my life is great cause for celebration. Today I am uping the ante of my life and throwing in my cards for joy.
Time to share again one of my favorite poems.
The poem is Testament (Or Homage to Walt Whitman) by Erica Jong.
I, Erica Jong, in the midst of my life,
having had two parents, two sisters,
two husbands, two books of poems
& three decades of pain,
having cried for those that did not love me
& those who loved me- but not enough
& those whom I did not love-
declare myself now for joy
There is pain enough to nourish us everywhere;
it is joy that is scarce…
Unhappiness is cheap,
Childhood is a universal affliction.
I say to hell with the analysts of minus & plus
the life-shrinkers, the diminishers of joy.
I say to hell with anyone
who would suck on misery
like a pacifier
in a toothless mouth.
I say to hell with gloom…
Doom is cheap
If the apocalypse is coming,
let us wait for it in joy…
I resolve myself for joy.
If that resolve means I must live alone,
I accept aloneness.
If the joy house I inhabit must be
a house of my own making,
I accept that making…
No joy-denyer can deny me now.
For what I have is undeniable.
I inhabit my own house,
the house of joy…
The soul is contagious.
One man catches another’s
like the plague;
& and we are all patient spiders
to each other.
If we can spin the joy thread
& also catch it-
If we can be sufficient to ourselves,
we need fear no entangling webs…
How to spin joy out of an empty heart?
The joy-egg germinates even in despair.
Orgasms of gloom convulse the world;
& and the joy-seekers huddle together.
We meet on the pages of books & by beachwood fires,
We meet scrawled blackly in many-folded letters.
We know each other by free & generous hands,
We swing like spiders on each other’s souls.
