A Haunting Joy

She had something, something it seemed I didn’t have, something I really wanted.  My memory of noticing the joy, present in her but seemingly absent in me, haunts me -- in the best of ways -- to this very day.

Over 200 Christmas-garb-clad souls gather in the clubhouse for our small mountain town’s Annual Christmas Tree Lighting event each year. Whilst waiting for the countdown to the tree-lighting, we all buy raffle tickets and squeeze our way around each other to view the various offerings and put our tickets in cups for items we hope to win. One year my husband and I won a sled, another year, some children’s toys and a groovy scarf. And let’s not forget the ornate stacked boxes of flavored popcorn we won, along with a wood ornament, engraved with the words "Green Valley Lake."  

 

The crowd nibbles Christmas cookies and sips hot drinks, visits with each other, says hello to Santa and Mrs. Claus, and though the space can get stuffy, the air is festive! All are merry, all are bright, and with my soul, it is well --

-- well, but for the angst I put myself through deciding where to place my tickets, in a sense, what to put my hope in, then trying to hear whether my number is called and, seemingly most importantly, whether I won. There is the buildup of excitement and the "Maybe, maybe, maybe," thoughts, followed by the disappointing announcement that whatever number was just read out was not mine! I take half a breath then force a smile and with weak hands applaud the winner of the (fill in the blank…cord of wood, hot cocoa set, Christmas throw, restaurant gift card).

Carolyn, whose name I did not yet know, was draped in a beautiful red silk gown, with sparkles and furred, fluffy edges. Her smile sparkled twinkled more brightly than the rhinestones adorning her dress. Of course red and silk and sparkly and festive all caught my eye.  But more noticeably, she displayed something that couldn’t be bought then worn, a more from-the-inside-out something. 

 

When a number was called and the winning ticket holder made their way to the table to claim their prize, Carolyn’s smile grew wider, and her joy for them shown in her eyes.  Joy bubbled up rom inside her.  With glee she applauded as the winner was announced, and she seemed truly happy for each person, as though she, herself, had nothing invested in the game.  As though she, herself had won.

 

As though.  Can I live as though my hopes are not placed in outcomes? Can I live trusting that there will be enough for us all, whether you win or I win in that moment?

 

As though the good that happens to you happens to us all?

 

I walk back to the cabin beneath an inky, star-strewn sky, hearing the crunch of snow beneath my booted feet, holding something beneath the surface of me more valuable than any raffle prize.  Gloved hands empty and tucked into my parka's pockets, but heart full, I want for nothing, except for what Carolyn has (and I don’t mean her gorgeous dress, though that would be lovely). 

I breathe deeply the frigid mountain air, and its crispness brings stark clarity to my thoughts.

Maybe I already have that kind of joy!

I found joy 

in seeing Carolyn’s joy 

in seeing others’ joy 

as they won their prizes!

If joy is indeed contagious (and I am increasingly believing this to be the case), I want to keep noticing it, catching it, and, best of all, spreading it. I want to have and share the kind of joy that seeps into your being, that causes others to notice, a joy that haunts you -- in the very best way.

 

 

 

I'm So Glad I Was Wrong

I thought it was alone. Each morning while I sat on the couch in our room at a mountain resort my husband and I rented, I gazed through the window at a ski chair. It hung alone facing downslope, suspended between seasons. No snow would arrive for a couple of months, and the summer mountain bikers and view seekers had all gone home.

Did the ski lift chair feel useless, unenjoyed, angry about how the life it previously led had ceased? This picture stirred something familiar inside of me, so I brought it to prayer, expressing to God my frustration with sometimes sensing I have no purpose, the impatience of waiting to be used by him, the loneliness of feeling unseen.

Do you see me waiting here?
Do you hear my prayer to find my purpose, to gain my footing when life as I knew it stopped?
Do you care?

Our last morning in the mountains, I brought my coffee over to the L-shaped couch, pulled a blanket over me to sink into some cozy quiet. This time, however, I sat in a different spot from where I'd been the previous mornings. From this small shift in position, my view out the window changed, and I gained a different perspective.

My heart leapt upon seeing what I saw. Across from the ski chair hung another chair suspended from the cable facing up the ski hill. They seemed to be looking at each other.

Relief washed over me as I realized the ski chair was not alone! Never, ever was it alone.

And neither am I.


Diane Carver Mann, 2020

What Frank Did, For Me

I took a walk one afternoon around the small mountain town I call home on the weekends. I passed cabins I recognized and cabins it seemed I was seeing for the very first time. I walked at a fast pace, trying to burn some anxious energy that left me feeling uneasy.

On the highest street in town, a cul-de-sac with homes perched on the mountain's edge offering vast views, I approached Frank, who, leaning on his walker, took slow, small, deliberate steps. Frank's memory is fading, I'm told, his knees are weakened, and at 90-plus years old, he appears fragile. 

I stopped just as I was about to pass by him. "Frank," I said, "I saw a video on Facebook of you singing 'Tomorrow,' and I enjoyed it so!"   

His face lit up at my remark, and he broke into song. He sang as though he were on stage with a riveted audience enjoying his talent. Such hope and confidence he exuded with each word. Frank took an eloquent bow at the end of his performance. "That's from the musical 'Annie,'" he said.  "I don't recall much of the musical, but I do remember the song."  I clapped and smiled and thanked Frank for his lovely offering. He continued down the street, while I raced up the street. On my way back down, I noticed Frank had advanced not much farther from where he was when he sang "Tomorrow" to me.

Again I stopped. "I remember your singing 'To Dream the Impossible Dream' at a gathering we had at the clubhouse years ago. That was lovely!" I said, hinting at the possibility of an encore performance. 

Of course he began to sing, "To dream the impossible dream, to fight the unbeatable foe, to bear with unbearable sorrow, to run where the brave dare not go." On he sang, bathing me in the music, while my heart sang along.

"This is my quest," he sang, "to follow that star, no matter how hopeless, no matter how far." Again, an eloquent bow from Frank and my adoring applause.  

I suppose we both offered each other something that afternoon, something unexpected and unexplainable, a gift that now lives in me.

Normally I feel bad passing a person who can't walk fast, who has some kind of handicap slowing them down, and I'll tend to walk more slowly to not make them feel bad. But this was not the case that day. I continued on, trusting that Frank was finding all the good while going the speed he could go, and I was free to go my speed, to be where I am on life's journey. Sooner than I, more than likely, Frank will be walking and skipping on streets of gold, with no aid, no pain, and a clear mind. Meanwhile, here, my steps may become slower and my mind less sharp.

I desire as I age to emanate the hope Frank displayed and that, though I may not remember the details of all that's happened in the past, or the full "musical," I'll remember the song and the spirit of the song and pass it along to others, offering them a vast view of hope for tomorrow. 

Just like Frank did, for me.

 

Taste, and See

On a wintry Saturday, I baked cinnamon maple scones at our cabin, using a new-to-me recipe. They were so yummy, I was eager to share them at our church potluck breakfast the following morning. But I coughed through the night, and it became clear neither I nor my husband would be attending church that Sunday. I was disappointed to miss blessing my church friends with my flavorful scones.

Before driving down the mountain, we parked our car in town to take a short walk around the lake. Two ladies we recognized sat at a picnic table across the road. “Do you want some scones?” I yelled through my mask with my hoarse, raspy voice. 

“Absolutely, yes, we do!” Kathy and Donna replied.

My husband retrieved the container holding the scones from the car and carried the treats across the road to our excited friends. “Take two!” I called over.

“Can we have three each?” they hollered back.

We continued our walk around the lake, and upon arriving back to our car, our friends let us know how much they enjoyed the delicious pastries. I don't know whose joy was more full, Kathy and Donna's in savoring the scones, or mine, in getting to share them. 

There’s a taste-and-see simplicity I experience when I share what I’ve baked. I don’t have weighty expectations on myself to “be somebody” in the kitchen, to become known as “Diane the baker.”  It is as simple as, “Here’s something I’ve made that is good. I hope it blesses you.” 

I was due to deliver a set of six benedictions this week for the Black Barn, an online community I belong to. I’d written and rewritten many and could not decide which ones to submit. The angst I experienced squeezed the joy out of writing and anticipating blessing others with my offerings. I tell myself, oh, but this is not a scoop of dough; it’s a scoop of my heart. Of course it’s going to be painful.

Perhaps my “of course” is off course.

I learned recently the word "companion" is derived from Latin and, at its core, it denotes someone who is present to you "with bread." As we are present to each other on this journey, we offer life-giving nurture and enjoyment, friend to friend. We bring who we are and what God has given us to offer. How good it is to have someone fully present to you; how much better when together you “break bread,” when together you unwrap and savor the good gifts God has given you. Together, we celebrate the Giver of the gifts. 

Again and again my thoughts return to the simplicity of baking something then sharing it, with a spirit of, “Taste and see the goodness!” 

I wonder what it would be like to experience such freedom as I weave words together and then share them. I wonder what kind of companionship I could bring to others, free from self-judgment about what I bring to the table. And I wonder whether God is inviting me to taste this kind of freedom, and to see that it is good.

diane mann, 2022