I’ve never been much of a sports enthusiast, but I am truly a fan of good writing. This week’s JOY was a convergence of the two.

The one sport I genuinely enjoy watching is basketball. It’s high-energy, and I mostly understand it: dribble down the court, try to score, and prevent the other team from doing the same. Still, when I used to watch March Madness with my dad, I realized how little I understood—like when a player fouled intentionally. There are likely many rules and strategies I miss. Even so, I love the energy: the roaring crowd, the shouting, the pep band, and the cheerleaders hurling T-shirts. (My gem of a husband caught one once and handed it right to me.) And I love it when we win.

My husband, John, and I attend our local college’s basketball games. At last weekend’s game, our girls (as we fans call them) trailed the other team until the last few minutes, when we started catching up. The score was 55-56 with the other team ahead by one. In the last second, one of our players dribbled, shot, and scored, just as the clock ran out. The crowd—including my usually reserved husband—went wild! I nearly wept with joy. After the game, the girls, as is the custom at our small college, ran into the stands to thank us and high-five the crowd. The player who made the basket came up to me. I hugged her and told her she was a hero. What a night!

So that was enough JOY to carry me through the week. Still, I decided to read about the game online. Here is what Sydney Allen, Augustana Athletics Communications, wrote: “Maliyah Elliott hit a fadeaway jumper at the buzzer to help the Augustana women's basketball team sink Minnesota Duluth 57-56 on Saturday afternoon in the Elmen Center. Vikings … held the Bulldogs … scoreless over the final 5:43 of gametime before the Elliott jumper iced the game. … The Vikings led just three times … one at the final horn.”

Listen to those phrases: “hit a fadeaway jumper at the buzzer”, “iced the game”, and "the final horn”. Now I know why people read the sports page. These writers have phrases that bring the game to life! I love reading good writing, and it turns out sports writing can be some of the best! So, I may try reading the sports page – at least some of it. Just for the JOY of hearing a unique turn of phrase.

There’s another game next weekend. It may not be a nail-biter, but it will bring me JOY. And I may just read about it afterwards. 

I love to read, and I read a lot. And to me, there is no feeling more delicious, more JOYful than the sensation that after slogging through a few really dull reads, I have finally hit on a good book. A book I can hardly wait to get back to, a book I hate to see end.

I love books with original characters. Not contrived, or, as my dad would have said, “silly”. A good plot helps. When the characters are delightful, and I can hardly wait to find out what happens to them, then I am really satisfied.

OK, I’ll admit it, I do have some pretty strong opinions (and emotions!) about the books I read. Which is why I have never been able to stick with a book club. I get so attached (or so annoyed) with the things I read that I take everyone else’s opinion almost personally. A few years ago, I was in a group that read and discussed Peace Like a River by Leif Enger. A masterful piece of writing … in my opinion. When one of the ladies said she couldn’t stand the book, I was crushed! It felt as if she insulted my child; that’s how in love with this book I was. On the other hand, to have a book club spend more than a minute on such popular books as Lessons in Chemistry (ugh) is just depressing for me.

Let’s talk about the length of a book. In my opinion, really good authors (Abraham Verghese and Barbara Kingsolver) deserve to have long books, and I will gladly stick with them. I was actually sad when Demon Copperhead (560 pages!) ended. But then there is the huge irritation of books that really could have used a good editor. I will not name the author here, for fear of backlash, other than to say her books are incredibly popular and incredibly long, and I have yet to finish a single one … get to the point!

I will wrap this up, because I really need to get back to my latest JOY – a really good book.

I hope you are starting your new year off with a good book, a good movie, a good conversation. Anything that brings you as much JOY as a really good book does for me.

A number of years back, I was trying on a pair of slacks at a women’s clothing store. I was shocked and dismayed to see that my size had changed …  yes, as you might have guessed, it had gone up. The clerk who was helping me find the next size said, “It’s only a number”, which honestly gave me a lot of comfort. Sometimes (often when I step on the scale), I harken back to that phrase: "It’s only a number."

On the other hand, sometimes numbers can be empowering. Like the number 2026. It’s a new number, a new year. And I’m ready for it.

My 2025 was not so great. A hospitalization, a few surgeries, and the dreaded eye injections. Our dog died. We moved to a new house, which was a joyful outcome, but a whole lot of work to get there. Then there was my dad’s final illness and passing. I can’t put into specific numbers how many hours I spent in 2025 traveling, planning, talking to my dad, family members, hospice, and nurses. Then, finally, there were the many sad hours spent planning my dad’s funeral. It was an exhausting, grief-filled time, leaving me with no energy or desire to write about joy.

It has been three months since I last posted any writing, which makes me feel sad and discouraged. But it is only a number.

I am ready for a new number: 2026, during which I can resume my “Finding Joy” blog posts. Noticing small pleasures in life and writing about them gives me great joy.

I hope you’ll return to read my posts, which I will start again in a week or two. Together, we can make 2026 a joyful year for all of us.

Last weekend, we returned from an out-of-town trip to behold a glorious sight: a teepee in our neighbor’s backyard. Not an authentic teepee – more a teepee built for backyard camping. Made of nylon and built to withstand the impossible winds here in South Dakota, we delighted in seeing the neighbor’s little girls run in and out of the doorway. I imagine they have little “beds” set up, and stuffed animals lined up along the wall. Perhaps some favorite toys. I imagine they feel safe and cozy inside. What a JOY to see.

A few months ago, we took our grandson on an overnight stay at an Airbnb. Not just any Airbnb… it was on a farm. This property was offered at an auction at a benefit gala I attended a few months prior. I was surprised to win it, but delighted. I knew Jameson would love being on a farm – the horses, the chickens, the, well, the farm. He did not disappoint. He loved it all. Walking amongst the chickens, feeding the horses, petting the dog and the cat. But what did he love best? A little closet in the house. With a sloped roof and plenty of room to sit in, it provided the perfect spot for Jameson and Nana, and Puppy, Bunny, Foxy, Snort, and Hop Hop Bun Bun to set up a little home. Occasionally, I would ask, “Would you like to go back out and feed the horses?” Why bother even asking when he could sit in a cozy little spot?

Growing up, Jameson’s mom, our daughter, Christine (Allison), had a tiny bedroom (her little brother and all his Legos got the big bedroom). Again, a sloped ceiling, and just enough room for a twin bed, a dresser, and a little desk. And she couldn’t have been happier. Cozy.

Cozy is the word Jameson uses when in a small space – “It’s so cozy!” – the same word his mother used when describing her bedroom. A word that conjures a small, safe place free of distractions from the outside world. A place that feels like it is giving you a big hug. 

For myself, and I imagine for so many of you, the thought of a McMansion on the hill is not really appealing. It may sound great, but most of us would still carve out a little nook where we can escape the sounds, the junk, and the everyday distractions that keep us anxious.

Seeing the teepee and all the coziness it conjures gave me great JOY this week.

I was not at home last night; in fact, home is no longer home – we’ve sold our house in suburbia and are waiting to move into our new house in the city. In the meantime, we are staying in an Airbnb, just a mile from our new home.

When you are staying in a strange home with unfamiliar surroundings, it can be challenging to get comfortable. Things that used to come automatically now require some thought. Where is the can opener? How do you turn on the TV? How to open that window.

Last night, as I was feeling particularly unsettled, I sat on the front porch. And there it was: the sound of cicadas, a sound that can make me feel right at home. Many people find the loud whirring of those bugs to be pretty annoying, and I’ll admit it can be. But it is familiar. It evokes memories of summer nights in Wisconsin. Summer nights in St. Paul. Cicadas remind me of big trees and the shade they give on hot summer days. They remind me of sleeping with the windows wide open.

Those cicadas reminded me why my husband and I are once again putting ourselves through this dreadful, draining, demoralizing process of moving. Believe me, we do need reminding. The sound of cicadas helps me remember what I need to feel comfortable in my home.  I need to be where there are big trees, sidewalks filled with kids on bikes, and a place to walk. This was and will be my life in the city.

Last night I fell asleep to the sweet, slightly jarring, always persistent sound of the cicadas, and it brought me home.

It gave me great JOY.

While perusing the obituaries in our local newspaper, I am sometimes confused by the phrase “Celebration of Life”. As in, “A Celebration of Life will be held…” – this in lieu of a funeral. I can’t help but wonder if the deceased loved ones are skipping over the grief to get to the celebration. Just my opinion, but it seems we gotta be sad and say goodbye before we start the party.

Anyway, I got to thinking about how this “Celebration of Life” idea could work as I say goodbye to my beloved summer. Ah, summer. There is nothing I love more than summer.  Shorts, open windows, camping, outdoor dining, biking, walking. The gardens, the trees, the birds.  All of which makes me want to weep when I feel the cold air creeping in, and I notice the leaves start to lose their vibrant green.

So, this year, instead of weeping and pouting (OK, there is plenty of that too), I decided to do a Celebration of Summer’s Life on Labor Day. And, as in all my plans, my beloved husband gets dragged along (happily). First, a pickleball game. Outside. Sunshine. The never-ceasing South Dakota wind, but we are starting to get used to it. A brief rest, then off to a Sioux Falls Canaries baseball game. I’m not much into sports, but man, oh man, I love sitting outside in those stands. The bright green and brown of the artificial turf, the blurbs of pop songs from the announcer as the batter steps up, the cheers, the silly contests in between innings. Home for a nap. Then off to B & G Milky Way for an “Avalanche” – their version of a Dairy Queen blizzard. This month’s special flavor: Biscoff. Do you know those crazy delicious cookies they serve on Delta Airlines? OMG. Break them up and mix them into soft ice cream. It was heavenly.

It was a heavenly day, which brought me great JOY.

This morning, it was too cold to play pickleball outside (48°!). The Canaries are wrapping up their season. I imagine B & G Milky Way will be shuttering their windows soon.

Did this celebration help me mourn the loss of summer? I’m not sure yet. I still feel a pang of dread as the cool wind forces me to close my windows.

But it was sure fun to celebrate.

This week’s JOY was a tragedy averted. Imagine standing in line at the KwikTrip with your darling little 4-year-old grandson as he places his bag of donuts, two donuts – one for himself and one for Grandpa – on the checkout counter. Nana (me) digs for the money, and with a sinking feeling in my stomach, I realize that I have left my wallet at home. I can see it in my mind – it's on the kitchen table, where I left it the night before while making an online purchase.  

Oh, the potential disappointment. How do I tell my little sweetheart that he has to put the donuts back? That we have to drive home and get the $3 and drive all the way back?

Here is the JOY. An older gentleman, one who looked like a grandparent himself, was standing next to us, having just made a purchase of his own. He said, “I’ll pay for it. Can’t have the little guy go without his donut.” Bless him. And bless him again.

Here is the real JOY: I actually expected him to pay! Let me explain. When I found out we didn’t have enough money, I decided to take a leap of faith. Faith in human kindness, goodness, or generosity. Seeing the customer next to us, I said (perhaps a little too loudly?), “Oh, honey. I am so sorry. Nana forgot her wallet…” I believed this kind man would step in. Some might say I was taking him for granted. I would say that in this world of fractured opinions and outright meanness, I believed that this person would do the right thing. And he did!

There is kindness in the world. I do believe that. And Jameson and his grandpa have the donuts to prove it. That brings me great JOY.

My high school years were not my glory days. I mean, I had some good times and some good friends. I performed well academically, but I was neither a cheerleader, an athlete, nor part of the top tier socially. After graduating, I did not keep up with one single friend – not because of bitterness, but just because of indifference, I suppose. So, when I received the invitation to my 50th high school class reunion, I threw it in the trash – I didn’t think twice.

But then, one of my best pals from high school (and junior high school!) – one of the friends with whom I never kept in touch, Jay, found me. He sent me an email, insisting I attend the reunion. I told him thanks, but no thanks. Still, he insisted! Persisted! Wore me down! I gave in. It helped that the reunion was held literally across the street from where my dad lives. I figured if the party was awful, I could go back across the street and go to bed in his apartment.

There were precisely two people at the reunion that I was overjoyed to see: Jay, and my friend, Carol, who held the same rank as me in the cruel social hierarchy of our high school. The three of us had a riot catching up on hilarious (at least we thought they were hilarious) old times, which were often at the expense of our poor, tortured teachers.

Carol and I paged through an old yearbook, pausing to point out various “mean girls”, and believe me, in my class, there were plenty of them. As Carol pointed out, she and I lacked the status to even consider being mean girls – no one would have cared who we chose to bully.

Throughout the evening, I recognized only a handful of people – a mere few out of our class of 650 kids. I could often remember the name on the name tag, but I could not associate it with the face. But, get this: I could recognize smiles! A woman (it was always a woman) would greet me, and I would scramble to recall who she was. Then voilà! She smiled! I remembered her!  A smile brought me an instant feeling of warm recognition. I still had no idea how I knew this person, but I knew we had been together in some class and that we had shared some good memories.  Strange and delightful that a smile brings back a feeling of recognition. Like the smell of cinnamon rolls baking reminds you of your grandma. A smile brought me great JOY.

A few more moments of JOY. First, the Riley sisters, identical twins. I did remember them, and boy, did they remember me!  When one sister, Corey, saw me, her face lit up, and she led me to Connie. “Connie! Look who I found!” It was a little embarrassing – you would have thought I was the second coming of Christ. I honestly did not think Connie would ever release me from her bear hug. It turns out they had been talking about me! Hoping I would show up! I had to look over my shoulder to figure out who they might be talking about.

Another unlikely JOY. George Morris, someone I considered to be the most handsome boy of our entire class. He was so out of my league back then; I’m sure we never even had a conversation. Yet, here was George … approaching me!  He was happy to see me! He gave me a kind of half hug. I said, “You were the most beautiful boy in high school… You are still beautiful”. I actually said that – it just spilled out of my mouth. He smiled and gave me a look that was a cross between an “Aw shucks” and “I get that all the time” look. What joy to know that I am now worthy of his attention.

I reported to Carol about how the Riley twins went insane over seeing me. And how George had deigned to talk to little ole me. She said, “Oh, I’m not surprised. You know, Martha, you really were something in high school.” Which I didn’t believe then, and I am not sure I believe now. I was never the cheerleader, the athlete, the club president, someone’s sweetheart. I guess that didn’t matter. It surely doesn't matter now.

So, here was this past week’s JOY: smiles that elicited memories, connecting with a few beloved friends, and finally learning that I was somebody all those years ago.

 And knowing that I still am.

Last week, we went camping. One of my favorite activities of all time is camping. I love everything about it – except perhaps when the weather is just a little too chilly and rainy—all the more reason to get inside our little camper and curl up under a cozy blanket. Our camper is tiny. Big enough for sleeping and for changing clothes. And that is just fine by me.

Without a bathroom in our camper, I walk to the campground shower house every night to get ready for bed. One night, a fellow camper was bent over the sink brushing her teeth. She remarked, "I sure do miss my electric toothbrush!" to which I agreed, not because I shared her sentiment – I don't feel particularly attached to my electric toothbrush – but because I just wanted to keep the conversation going. She said, "How about you? What do you miss when you are camping?" I was stumped. I could not think of a single thing except my grandsons, whom I miss even when we are in town. I told her I would have to think about that. And I did. I thought, and I thought. I even discussed it with my husband to see if he had any suggestions.

Finally, I came up with an answer. I miss listening to the news. I typically stream my favorite news programs on my phone, especially when I'm cooking. However, this campground had “no bars," meaning there was no cell service. No news.

But then I got to thinking about that. Do I miss listening to the steady stream of awful news? No, I do not. 

The next morning, the woman was back at her sink. I told her I thought about her question – what I miss when I go camping. I told her I miss nothing.  

So, there you have it. Camping gives me great JOY. Sleeping "outdoors", the campfire, cooking and eating outside, sitting around reading a good book, or playing games. Hiking. Being together, being outside. 

And no bad news.

Last night, I awoke at 3:30 AM—I know I am not alone in this. I imagine millions of people of a certain age wake up and stay awake. It seems that worries of the day are amplified at this hour. This morning, I thought, my goodness, what problem was I trying to solve in the middle of the night? I honestly cannot remember.

Amid all this midnight fretting, along comes unexpected joy: a train whistle. A long series of train whistles, which brings me instant comfort and gives me an incredible feeling of all being right in the world.

A few years ago, my parents lamented that the train whistle in their town had been silenced. So many people in the community had complained that it was waking them up at night that they decided to halt the whistles. So, the mournful sound of a whistle as the train rolled through town was gone. They miss it. I would too.

What is it about the sound of a train whistle that brings me, perhaps many of us, such joy? Could it be nostalgia? My husband tells me it reminds him of his visits to his grandparents in Marion, Iowa, where the train rumbled right through the middle of town. I, too, have fond memories of the train rolling by a few blocks away from my grandparents’ house in Everly, Iowa.

Perhaps it is the tone of the whistle – something especially pleasurable to some part of our brain.

Most likely, it is a mystery, like so many things in our lives that bring us joy, that we cannot necessarily explain: my grandson’s laughter, sitting out on my patio on a warm spring day, my dog’s wild enthusiasm for me when I finally walk in the door.

A train’s distant whistle in the middle of the night gives me a feeling of life going on without me, even while I sleep. Indeed, the world keeps turning, and life is generally good. I can stop worrying for now.

I pull the blankets up to my chin, roll over, and fall back asleep.

I know I say this way too often, but I really, no, really, do not like cold weather. That is why I get more excited than most about the possibility of warm weather headed our way. Even though today, April 8, my weather app says the temperature is only 33 degrees (with a "feels like" temperature of 24 degrees, due to our incessant South Dakota wind), I have proof that spring is coming.

My husband tells me the recent arrival of robins signals spring. He is right, of course, but now I've noticed that some robins stay all year long in this impossible climate, so the birds may not be as reliable as they were in the past.

Now I have data based on observations collected by a group of “citizen scientists”. Yesterday on Public Radio, I heard that these observers’ sure sign of spring - the color green -has started to appear, as the climate guy said, "As far north as Sioux Falls, South Dakota." Yes, Sioux Falls finally has Minnesota (my beloved home state) beat. We are seeing spring. At least, that's what the observers tell me. 

I found a map by the USA National Phenology Network (definition of phenology: the science of seasonal cycles and how they're affected by climate and habitat. Observing the movement of migrating birds or noting when the leaves start changing color in the fall is all part of phenology). The Phenology Network’s website has many maps, but I was interested in the "Spring Leaf Index", which records the first leafing of early spring shrubs and other plants. Take a look at the yellow creeping up the map:

Yup, indisputable proof: spring has finally arrived. There is no going back. Temperatures be damned.  

This brings me great JOY. 

Happy spring!!

I am writing this in the middle of Lent, a 40-day period in the Christian calendar leading up to Easter, the celebration of the Resurrection. During this time, we are encouraged to remember who we are through prayer and reflection and to tend to our relationships with God and with each other.

The Bible uses the number 40 a lot in its stories – think about Noah’s flood lasting 40 days, Israelites wandering 40 years in the wilderness before they entered the Promised Land, and Jesus fasting for 40 days and nights before he was tempted by Satan. The examples are too numerous to list here, but in each case, it seems these 40 days, weeks, or years always indicate a period of hardship, after which God leads the people out of the wilderness, and life gets good again.

I have considered the number 40 during my own emergence from the wilderness. My wilderness has been my old body and all its new ailments, which seemed to arise just as I started my life in this new city. My days have been flooded with doctor appointments, treatments, medications, surgeries, and recoveries. I now have had treatments for my eyes, ears, breasts, colon, and knee. The only parts I have left are my brain and my heart (well, maybe a few other organs too), and I am not waiting around to see if those will fall apart.

I feel (mostly) good! I am thankful for all the good medical care and nursing (his name is John) I have received here in Sioux Falls.

A month ago, during my latest (and hopefully last!) period of recovery, I was feeling particularly low due to the fact that I could not lift my arms above my head, had to sleep on my back, and pretty much could not do anything. In between feeling sorry for myself, I forced myself to think about everything I would be able to do at the end of this recovery. I wrote (and wrote and wrote) them down. And, believe it or not, there were precisely 40 things! Little things, like bending over to pick up the dog’s dish and sleeping on my side. There were big things, like being pain-free, taking long walks, and picking up my grandchildren.

Now, at the end of my recovery, I have just looked at my list, and though I have not done all the things (such as swimming, dancing, and pickleball), I have done most of them – like going to church regularly, taking a shower without assistance, and exercising. More than anything, I feel free from my wilderness of mental anguish: the worrying, the fretting, the annoyance. And finally, I am free from what felt like a wilderness of doctor appointments, checking MyChart, and filling yet another med at the pharmacy.

So, I am out of my wilderness. I am thankful for the 40 things I can do now—things I will never again take for granted. Finally, I am thankful that I can get back to some kind of schedule, one that includes more writing, and I am thankful to you, my reader. 

May you have a blessed period of Lent, during which you are led out of your own 40 days of wilderness.

It’s nice to be recognized, especially when you least expect it.

My surprise recognition came last week while visiting my hometown of St. Paul, doing my absolute favorite activity in the world: Soul Line Dancing. I’ve been attending Ms. Tina’s class for years, so it’s gratifying to be recognized and greeted and hugged by my Soul Line Dance Sisters (and one brother). I expect it, but I never take it for granted.

But here is what I didn’t expect. Some gray-haired middle-aged woman, whom I did not recognize, approached me and said, “Are you a Wagner?” Well, I am a Wegner, but close enough. I responded that yes, I am indeed a Wegner. She said, “I thought so. I recognized you.” As in, she recognized me from my childhood, my childhood of many (many!) years ago in Appleton, Wisconsin. She told me her name, and I recognized it, although I sure didn’t recognize her. Her family, like mine, had five kids, and our parents hung out together (my parents had a HUGE social circle – think golf, tennis, play readings, bridge, dance club, and cocktail parties of the ’60s).

So, how did this woman recognize me after all these years? It certainly wasn’t because she remembered me specifically from childhood. That would have been one of my sisters – the ones who made a lot of noise with their cheerleading, the boyfriends, the rebellion, and their performing in every high school play. I was none of those. No, she undoubtedly recognized me as a “Wagner” because I look remarkably like my mother.

This has happened to me before. One time I was at a rest stop in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin. Someone asked if I was a Wegner – again, that unexpected jolt of being recognized as part of the tribe of Wegner women. Another time, we were in Ames, Iowa at a wedding. A woman attending the wedding asked, “Are you Jean Wegner’s daughter”? I kid you not.

This “Are you a Wagner?” comment gave me great JOY this week. It was nice to be recognized, not so much because I was a particularly memorable kid (as opposed to my raucous, cheerleading, heartbreaking older sisters), rather I was recognized because I looked like my mother.

My mom passed away four years ago, and, like so many children, I know I carry a piece of her. Memories, talents, a sense of humor. My husband and children would tell you I have her quirky traits: “Oh, that is such a Grandma Jean thing you just did!” “Oh, that look on your face was exactly like your mother’s”. But I have the added pleasure of knowing that my face elicits memories for others too. All I have to do is show up and smile.

I am fortunate that my mom was so well-loved – it would be tough to have her face if she was a nasty person.

It gave me great JOY that someone recognized my mom and me after all these years.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Mom. I love you.

Today’s inauguration does not bring me JOY. I really fear the presidency of Donald Trump and his minions – the anger and retribution, and the damage I believe his policies will bring to our nation. I am sad that a convicted felon who has so much contempt for so many people will be leading us. So, how to find joy?

I am leaning on the feelings I experienced as I watched Jimmy Carter’s funeral a few weeks ago, specifically as I watched the assemblage of past presidents and vice presidents. Now, that gave me great joy. Each of these leaders was kind and respectful towards each other. President Obama was able to share a laugh with President Trump. Vice President Mike Pence shook Mr. Trump’s hand, even though Trump had done nothing to stop those who were calling to “hang Pence”.  Even former President Gerald Ford, whom Carter ejected from the White House in the 1976 election, wrote a moving eulogy, declaring Carter to be a very good person and a very close friend.

There was a poignant moment when Vice Presidents Pence and Gore — two vice presidents who chose the Constitution and put the country first to move on from disputed elections — stood and chatted.

These men, (and yes, our country’s leaders continue to be an all-male club), showed that dignity, respect, forgiveness, civility, and maturity are possible. Even after bitter rivalries and harsh words have been spoken, kindness prevails.

Of course, Jimmy Carter’s acts during and after his presidency showed us all how important kindness, generosity, selflessness, and humility, yes, humility, are. He was a genuine person, and many people felt honored to be considered his friend. Most citizens in our country grew to admire him. It was joyful to hear about this man, both his public achievements, but also his private moments with his family and friends.

I will not watch today’s inauguration – I am anxious about what I believe this man will inflict upon our country, especially those who are poor and powerless. I will instead focus on the joy I felt a few weeks ago. A joy in seeing leaders who are respectful and kind to each other. That gives me hope. And it will bring me joy if we can achieve that in the next chapter of our political lives. 

Sometimes it can be really challenging to find JOY. Like when you are in the hospital. That was me, a few weeks ago, because of an infection I developed following my recent surgery. Three nights of IV antibiotics later, I am home. Being home is certainly a great source of joy. 

A hospital is uncomfortable. The lumpy bed. The lights. The sounds. The crummy TV. The not-so-great food. And the constant – constant – interruptions for “vitals”, IV bag changes, blood draws, and doctor visits.  

I tried to find joy while I was there. There is the obvious joy that there are people who are trying, it turns out successfully, to make me healthy. And the joy that insurance will pay for it. And there is the joy that the people who take care of me are, without fail, really nice people.  

I remembered a friend of mine whose husband was dying in the hospital. She said he made a point of thanking every single person who helped him during his stay. That seemed to bring both of them joy, so I decided to try it.

I thanked the nurses who cleaned me up after I became violently ill (a reaction to the antibiotic which I will not describe here). I thanked the cleaning person who cleaned the floor. I thanked my nurses everyday for the good work they did. I thanked the person who delivered the meals, the people who stabbed me with the needles, the doctors who visited me. I tried to add in compliments, like, “That barely hurt at all!” to the IV specialist, and a few apologies to people like the nurse who had to bear the brunt of my sudden illness.

Expressing gratitude does bring JOY. Joy to the receiver, but also to the giver. It seemed the best I could do in this most un-joyful of circumstances. It’s the best I should do in all circumstances.

So, I am home. I feel good. And it is almost Christmas, that most joyful of holidays.

Merry Christmas. And here’s to a happy new year, filled with good health – for each and every one of us.

A year and a half ago, my world turned upside down. After living in my beloved Minnesota for 42 years, I suddenly became a resident of South Dakota (we did it for the grandkid). My reaction was swift and painful: fear, grief, alienation. I had left my city, my friends, indeed, the life that I knew and loved, behind.

In the midst all this angst, I came upon a poem, written by South Dakota’s poet laureate, Bruce Roseland. It is called “A Prairie Prayer”. In the poem, Roseland uses the voice of a pioneer settler, trying to survive the harshness of South Dakota’s unforgiving prairie. The poem resonated immediately with me. I felt the same way as this pioneer, although the harshness of my new life had nothing to do with the rough climate – it had to do with losing so many things I held dear. The settler asks, “Do I have what it takes to survive, or will I shatter and break?”, and I knew just how he felt. 

It turns out the person in the poem decides to stick it out, saying, “I want to touch a little further beyond my reach, for the something that I seek.” I was inspired. If he could do it, I could do it. A poem did that for me.

Say what you will about South Dakota, good or bad, they love their poetry. I see poetry in the back of South Dakota magazine. I hear poets on South Dakota Public Radio being interviewed and reading their poetry. I read stories about Badger Clark, who became South Dakota’s first poet laureate in 1937.     

A few weeks ago, I saw an event posted online. It was called “Poetry on the Road”, put on by the South Dakota State Poetry Society. This group sponsors open mic events in towns across South Dakota, followed by a poetry reading by Bruce Roseland. 

So, last week I walked into the funky used bookstore/bar/coffee shop/performance venue downtown where the event was held. Who knew? Who knew that so much stuff could be packed into one small place? And who knew that such a hip place would be located smack-dab in the middle of strait-laced South Dakota? I was nervous about attending the event alone, but I needn’t have been. Turns out poets are kind of a solitary bunch – seemed like everyone was on their own. I grabbed my wobbly stool with the cracked vinyl seat, ready to listen. One by one, poets came up and read their poems (two was the limit). Some of the poems were quite good, at least it seemed to me that they were quite good. Some of the poems went on for far too long (where’s an editor when you need one?).  A few young college-age women took to the mic. Another woman went up to the mic for her first time as a birthday present to herself. Of course, there had to be a few oddballs. One young man donned a paper moustache and beard and an odd-looking hat, and recited his poem, which to me didn’t seem like a poem but instead a very long narrative which made little sense, all in a British accent. But mostly, it was a ragtag group of gray-haired men and women sharing their heartfelt sentiments on a little stage.

So, this week’s JOY: poetry. The kind that is for everyone. Gray-haired ladies like me. Young people. Even oddballs wearing a paper moustache. And the power of a single poem to remind me that I have what it takes to survive.

I give you Bruce Roseland’s poem. I do not have permission to reprint it, but I hope he understands. 

A Prairie Prayer  By Bruce Roseland 

          Here, on this arc

          of grass, sun and sky,

          I will stay and see if I thrive.

          Others leave. They say it’s too hard.

          I say hammer my spirit thin,

          spread it horizon to horizon,

          see if I break.

          Let the blizzards hit my face;

          let my skin feel the winter’s freeze;

          let the heat of summer’s extreme

          try to sear the flesh from my bones.

          Do I have what it takes to survive,

          or will I shatter and break?

          Hammer me thin,

          stretch me from horizon to horizon.

          I need to know the character

          that lies within.

          I want to touch a little further

          beyond my reach,

          for something that I seek.

          Only then will my spirit be released.

From South Dakota in Poems, 2020

I begin with the joy of playing Mahjong yesterday, which I played for the first time in many weeks. Add to that the pleasure of going to see “Godzilla Minus One” (trust me on this – it was a really good movie!). I went out to dinner at a restaurant. I went to a lecture at our local college. I took a very long walk. Took my grandson to his swimming lesson.

These joys were brought to me courtesy of a newly recovered body following surgery. One really positive thing about surgery (other than the obviously hoped-for outcome of a healthy body), is it makes you appreciate every little thing you customarily take for granted.

Last month, I had a mastectomy. A surgery I sure never expected to be having, but one I deemed necessary. Unbelievable as this may sound, I actually elected to have this surgery. After suffering the pain of countless mammograms, a needle biopsy, and a lumpectomy (don’t let the innocuous-sounding name fool you – it’s still surgery), my doctors found precancer cells in my breast. My chances of developing breast cancer were just too high for my comfort, so I opted for a mastectomy. The surgery itself wasn’t awful – it was just the weeks of recovery that really got me. My body just did not feel like my body.  I was so tired. I walked around with these awful drainage tubes attached to my waist. I was not only depleted of energy; I was depleted of confidence. How could I go out in the world looking and feeling like this?

Now, five weeks out, I feel better, much better. I still take epic naps, but the tubes are out, I wear pants with a zipper(!); I even put on makeup one day. I’ve gone to the movies and dinner with my husband. And yesterday, I wrote two goals for myself: go play Mahjong and call a friend to have lunch. I did both!

Next week I will be totally free of all restrictions, which, while joyful, is a little scary because I still don’t totally feel like my old self. I have been given permission to exercise, to dance, to play pickleball, and, best of all, to carry my baby grandson. This may all take a while, but I’m free to try.

So, there it is. The JOY of a successful surgery. The joy of recovery. The joy of all the blessings in my life like companionship, meals out, exercise, dancing, pickleball, and picking up my grandsons. The list goes on. There are indeed many joys in my life. May I always savor them.

These last few weeks have been a buzz of activity.  I’ve been joyfully wrapping up the season of summer - actually squeezing what little life I can out of summer before I have to haul out the sweaters and pants. Everything that I love is associated with summer, including camping, biking, playing pickleball, and eating on the outside patio of a restaurant. We did it all in a flurry of “grab it while you can” activity. September was kind, allowing us a few extra weeks of summer delight.

This morning, my husband pointed out the frost that had formed on our neighbor’s roof. We are going to go play what might be our last outdoor game of pickleball for many months. 

Summer gave me great joy, and with the ending of this glorious season, one must look forward to the JOY of the cold seasons.  

The things that are sure to bring me JOY: a good book, watching a good movie, going to the Children’s Museum with my 3-year-old grandson, watching my baby grandson learn to roll over, babble, and sit up. Playing board games and doing puzzles with my husband. A good hearty stew. Taking short trips and staying in a hotel, instead of a in camper. Museums. Pickleball indoors (no South Dakota wind to send our ball flying across the prairie). Full church services. Thanksgiving, Christmas (and what makes Christmas better than a young child’s squeal of delight with each new gift?). You’ll notice I don’t list snow, ice, and cold as joy-invoking things – I tolerate those in order to get to the good stuff. 

And then, let’s be honest – there are the three weeks we spend luxuriating in the warmth of Florida sunshine in February.

I am beyond thankful for the JOY of another beautiful and fun-filled summer. And I promise myself that I will find joy as the winter winds begin to blow. I have my family, my health, all those indoor activities, and a trip to Florida to keep me full of joy.

It’s when you are gliding across a lake in a small fishing boat that you start understand why. Why so many people in my beloved state of Minnesota have cabins. During the summer months, when you ask a native Minnesotan what they are doing this weekend, at least half of them say, “Going to the lake”. 

I grew up in Wisconsin, where we called our cabins “cottages”. I don’t remember trips to the cottage (or cabin) as such an integral part of our Wisconsin culture – not like it is in Minnesota.

My husband and I never got into the up-north cabin scene. First of all, we did not want to have to take care of two residences, what with the mowing and the upkeep and the Herculean task of putting a dock in in May and then pulling it out at the end of the season. And, let’s be honest, we could not have afforded it anyway. Many Minnesotans, although not all, have cabins that have been passed down through the generations, which are now shared with siblings.

No, John and I never felt a yearning for a second property on a lake. We felt fortunate to travel and camp and visit places we might not have gone to if we were tied to a cabin up north.

But this week, as we have done for the past few years, we rented a cabin on a Minnesota lake. What a glorious week it was.

John loves to fish. He loves to fish almost as much as he loves me. He fished so much this week, that by the time we were leaving, he said, “I’ve actually had my fill of fishing”, words never spoken by him. Ever. I love to read and walk and sit in a chair on the dock. He fishes, I relax.

But here was the best part of the week: the daily “lake cruises”. After John had exhausted his fishing needs for the day, he would take me on a ride in the boat. Sometimes we rode “super-fast”, as my grandson would say. But most times we just cruised along the shoreline, admiring cabins, which have now become McMansions, which I think is very unfortunate. A cabin is supposed to be a cabin. But perhaps that is my envy speaking. 

As we cruised, we saw loons – a sight that never fails to thrill. A solitary loon one evening, a group of eight loons another evening. A bald eagle – again, a sight that continues to thrill. Sunlight shimmering on the water. Fish jumping. The placid surface of the lake, occasionally interrupted by a boat attempting to get a little kid up on water skis. The gentle rocking of the boat. 

This week’s JOY: a week on one of Minnesota’s many beautiful lakes. A daily lake cruise. And knowing we could drive away without having to pull up the dock. 

This week’s JOY starts out with one of my supreme pleasures: camping. My husband insists that I call it “glamping”, as in “glamorous camping”, I guess because we do not sleep on the ground, or cook over an open fire, or carry all our stuff on our backs. To which I say: we do cook outside (a Coleman stove), we do sleep in a little camper WITHOUT air-conditioning, which in today’s campgrounds is a rarity, and yes, we do carry lots and lots of equipment – in the back of the car.

Whatever you call it, it gives me great pleasure to sleep outdoors (with screens between me and the bugs), to cook and eat outdoors, and to sit around a campfire and read a book.

This week, we made our best attempt at camping. But after only a few hours of sweating, sweating, and more sweating in 90° heat and oppressive humidity, we finally looked at each other and said, “Are we having fun?” We were not. We decided to sleep that night in our camper, and head back home to air-conditioned comfort in the morning. It turns out we were thankful that the heat drove us out. Because the next day, a severe thunderstorm rolled through.  

As were heading out that next morning, we heard all sorts of warnings about a severe storm that was approaching. And sure enough, it happened. I am not exaggerating when I say the 70 mph winds would have overturned our tiny camper, and the hail would have destroyed it if we had stayed in the campground. As the rain poured down and the wind picked up we felt as if we were in the movie “Twisters”, which we had just seen last week. Unlike the movie, we were not driving toward the storm – we were driving away, but we still felt as if any minute we might be swept up into the clouds.

Finally, we approached a town, and decided to pull over and go into a building where we would be safe. We chose the bank on Main Street. And would you believe me if I told you this bank was in the town where our son-in-law grew up? What a coincidence. The tellers welcomed us and marveled with us as we watched the crazy storm outside. I asked if they knew my son-in-law and his family. Of course they did. Which brings up another joy of mine: discovering that it is indeed a small world. I mean, what are the chances? A storm hits, you pull into a random bank in a random town, and everyone there knows your in-laws?

So, camping was cut short. But we ended up safe and comfortable in our air-conditioned house. And, once again, I realized how small and wonderful our world can be. Real JOY.