What does it take to feel those. They came naturally when I was younger, but not so much now. Have I seen too much? Done too much? Am I jaded?
There are still some experiences guaranteed to bring it on. Bliss is found in the first warm day in the garden, muddy hands, muddy knees, crystalline blue skies, and the soft air of an Appalachian spring.
Joy. To be joyous may require a light heart. Perhaps I have too many worries for joy. But no, my grandson brought me joy. Holding him, time stopped and it was just me and Julien. Time stopped. The moment.
And Ecstasy…the birth of my son. Perhaps the only time of my life that I was truly ecstatic. It’s a state of being that suffuses the whole body and the whole mind. Nothing else in that moment but the sensation of unfettered happiness at the cellular level. The moment stretching on and on.
But remember when something simple could provoke these states? Perhaps they are side effects of youth – states of being easy to slide into before the world beat us down.
What stage of grief is it when mourning doves are cooing and the soft morning air carries the sound to me in my bed. That sound. What stage of grief is that sound?
When I was twelve, my mom sent me to the store for lettuce. I can’t remember why, but I didn’t ride my bike. It was six blocks. And very hot. The heat surprised me. It was crystal clear and not humid, but the heat was oppressive. It lay on my body like a boulder. I pretended I was trekking through the desert in search of the Holy Grail. In my mind, so very fertile in those days, I saw myself on my knees croaking, “Water, water.” It was so hot.
I bought the head of lettuce and the bag boy put it in a full-size, brown paper bag. The sweat of my hands left large blotches on the paper. It seemed much too large. He embarrassed me when he said, “Can I carry that to your car, ma’am?” He did it just to be mean. I flushed, and he and the cashier laughed. I knew them both from the school bus – they were two of the high school kids that picked on the rest of us.
Wayne Dyer said, “When you dance, your purpose is not to get to a certain place on the floor. It’s to enjoy each step along the way.
I’m dancing as fast as I can. The tempo may kill me. My feet lift and fall, lift and fall, heel, toe, do si do, step two three and twirl.
I’m dancing as fast as I can, don’t ask me to juggle. Now is not the time. Dip, sway, do the hustle, all fifty-seven steps. I can’t stop, the music still plays and plays and plays…like an organ grinder with a monkey I dance.
Perhaps I should seek coins from those watching.
I’m dancing as fast as I can, skirt belling and swirling and tangling between my legs. I stumble now and again, but I’m dancing as fast as I can.
No time for chores, for downtime, for respite, I am dancing as fast as I can, The cha cha, the foxtrot, a stately waltz all without a partner. Alone.
Nietzche said, “And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.
I want to ride the Orient Express in 2025. They are refurbishing seventeen original cars– lush and extravagant – with all the glamor of rail travel of old. Formal dining, a club car, suites, a trip fit for royalty. I want to clatter through Budapest and Venice, London and Paris. I want to dress for dinner. I want to fall asleep to the rhythm of the car swaying as it makes it way through the dark. I want to wear an evening gown with a dramatic white silk stole and a beaded purse.
I imagine being pampered and shutting out the real world. Going back in time to elegance and refinement. Shhhhh…. I know the good old days weren’t so good… but there were some things that were. Never mind they were only available for the wealthy and only will be again in 2025. I can dream.
I would want to find vintage luggage for this trip. A train case. A hat box. Yes, I would wear a hat and hosiery and gloves. Eating cucumber sandwiches with a full English tea.
I would wear bright red lipstick and the hosiery would have seams up the back. My powder compact would be gold and my hairbrush an ornate silver with boars’ bristles.