Where does Joy Begin?

The origin story of my love affair with joy.

I’m a big fan of origin stories.

I want to know the why and the how behind the what.

“Why did you start this business?”

“How did you two meet?”

“Where did that idea come from?”

So often I find that the origin story is profoundly more interesting and, typically, more entertaining than the end result. The story of the start line sets the stage for the entire journey.

I’ll give you an example. My husband and I used to run together while we were dating. He would casually saunter beside me while I busted ass to run a pace that could be considered marginally respectable. We both knew he could dust me at any second, but he never did. Except once.

We were at the start line. For a fun run. Literally, a one mile jaunt around the block to raise money for prostate cancer research. Held at one of our favorite breweries, it seemed like the perfect excuse to then spend the afternoon in the biergarten with all our friends. I kept telling my then boyfriend to go all out. See if he could win. He kept telling me he didn’t want to.

“No, babe, I’ll run with you. It’s no big deal. This is for fun.” 🙄

Right before the gun went off, the race director got on the megaphone and yelled…

“Remember, the winner gets a free case of beer!”

My husband’s head whipped around, he looked down at me and said “You’re good, right?” and sprinted off.

Flabbergasted, I started laughing, running the previously agreed upon “fun run” pace. Nine or so minutes later, I see him at the finish line, trying to hold back a grin. I pulled up to him, slightly breathy, and accused “You won, didn’t you?”

Sheepishly, but not that sheepishly, he pointed to his case of beer.

That day remains one of the joy💣 stories of our relationship. It was an origin story, a harkening of the type of union we would ultimately create. To this day, he would still leave me for a case of beer, and I would still laugh, knowing the sacrifice was worth it. Free beer is better than no beer and while running solo isn’t as fun, my husband will always be waiting for me at the finish line.

So, what is joy’s origin story? Or, more precisely, how did my relationship with joy begin?

If I had to guess, which I do, so I will, joy and I first hit it off with a mutual appreciation of dance. I remember a visceral experience of joy at five years old listening to “Papa Won’t Preach” in the living room while my dad did the dishes. Joy saw me on the couch and invited me to the dance floor. We discovered that we both spoke the language of movement…and music…and Madonna. Joy’s no fool.

This start to our relationship was a strong predictor of the journey ahead. There were times, many times, where the only place I could find joy was on the dance floor. She somehow learned in those early days that if she could coax me in to movement, I would let her in.

She cemented herself in my life during my parents’ divorce and the dark days after by turning me in to a competitive dancer. The dance floor became the dance stage, and joy is nothing if not a performer. Once sequins and make up and pointe shoes and an audience got added to the offer, joy and I found each other every weekend in the wings of an auditorium about to go under the bright lights. She disappeared on me after the number was over, or maybe I just couldn’t bring her home with me, but I knew where to find her.

As sequins got less practical and age and injuries and gravity made competitive dance almost comical, I tried to find her in other movement. When I first moved to Charlotte, I became a belly dancer. Or, more accurately, I spent a fortune on skirts with coins and finger symbols and practiced popping my hips out of socket to the rhythm of the music. Joy was maybe not as big a fan of my belly dancing days. She knew I was faking it and eventually stopped coming to class.

And then I, we, found yoga.

It was like joy and I had been on a break. A forced one with minimal contact because I didn’t trust myself to reach out to her. I told myself I didn’t want her in my life, didn’t need her. But slowly, through mindful movement, sweat, and the same experience of fluidity and freedom, I realized I was wrong. The more heart openers I did, the more joy flooded back in.

When I was unsure of our status, I came back to my mat. She was always there. Every single time.

And while we left every class together, I often lost her in the crowd, sometimes mere seconds after walking out the door.

The yoga studio could have sold me a much more expensive membership if they had just told me joy would always greet me when I walked in the door. Instead, it took my dumb ass years to figure that out.

I asked joy to do yoga beside me after my mom died. I couldn’t handle her being too close, but I needed to know she still existed in the world. When my husband was hurt, I went to class because I didn’t know where else to go. Joy did her best to comfort me, but I was numb, cold, unable to accept her kindness. I moved to keep the possibility of joy alive, but the reality of joy was not one I could experience at the time.

As my husband healed, I started looking for joy again. I first found her in the quotes my instructor put up on the whiteboard, poetic lyrics that stayed with me, joy’s whispers that I could finally hear again. Then I began to feel her, the warmth of my instructor’s hands with a gentle assist on my back, a strength in my legs when I rooted in warrior two, a lightness to my dancer that allowed me to lean even further in and stay balanced. My body experienced joy before my brain did.

And then one day, there she was. Right in front of me. Smiling.

We were being taught the movement series “breath of joy.” I reached high, filling my lungs with air and my eyes with sunshine, and as I started to bend forward, throwing my arms in to the effort to help expel the air, there she was. I looked a fright, horse lips pursed to make the noisiest exhalation possible, but she just laughed.

Always the best look with which to greet your beloved…

It’s not lost on me that we started with Madonna and have made it all the way to horse lips. It’s not quite free beer, but it’s one helluva run.

My husband and I have a pretty clean love story. He drives me fucking crazy, but he’s the best man I’ve ever met and despite the fact that he may love beer more than he loves me, we’re same same on who we want to be and how we want to get there.

My relationship with joy is messy. From the start, we’ve been playing games. She likes to dance, and she knows I do too, so she uses that to her advantage. Then, she up and leaves me in the parking lot to face another day without her. Age and suffering have slowed me down, so I no longer chase her, but I’m still pissed when she shows up late or not at all or when I just can’t find her on my mat. It’s weird to be in love with something you sometimes can’t even see.

Our love story is more like an affair. Big, dramatic feelings. Lots of “Go fuck yourself!” text messages and crying in the car over “our song” on the radio. It’s been a roller coaster.

But here’s what I know about joy.

Joy starts somewhere. She and you have an origin story. A beginning. It is undoubtedly interesting and likely more entertaining than most of the other stops along your journey. So when joy is lost, go back to the start. Maybe its beer. Maybe its Madonna. Maybe its Maybelline, but there is something you two share that can bring you back together.

Happy Valentine’s Day love bugs. 💖

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Next week on The Joy Luck Club, I tell the story of how joy and I made up…in a jungle. Stay tuned…