Possessing The Secret of Joy...Still
What does joy mean in a season of despair?
I had great dreams of writing a new Advent reflection on joy this week. But it’s the end of the semester and my creative energy is waning. So I’ve decided to be gracious toward myself and repost last year’s reflection, with some added practice suggestions. Last year I was struggling with joy in the aftermath of the presidential election. Now, twelve months later, we realize that this administration is as bad, and worse, than we’d feared. And still, there is room for joy.
The Secret of Joy
“What’s your name,” the older White woman asked. We were both in a state of mid-dress in the locker room, having just gotten out of the showers after our water aerobics class. That corner of the locker room was usually crowded by middle-aged and elderly women struggling to get dressed while maintaining our balance, staying out of each other’s way, and chatting about everything from health to children to politics. Attendance at the daily classes had waned from the typical 20-25 people because a malfunctioning part kept the pool from reaching the 84 degree threshold necessary for many people with arthritis. Only eight of us had showed up for class and five left before it was over. We had lots of room to spread out. But even with the spaciousness, we kept up the chatter.
“Chanequa,” she repeated after me, “what a beautiful name. It’s so unique.” I braced myself, waiting for the inevitable follow-up questions: What does it mean? Where does it come from? I wondered how much I would tell her. Would I share that my mother decided to make up a name because she just couldn’t bear to name me Geraldine in honor of my father (for this I give thanks, with all due respect to the Geraldines in the world)? Would I explain that she was continuing a tradition started by my grandmother, who was ahead of her time in giving her children names like Laquitta, Lunetha, Zeporia, and Farrell in the 1950s? Would I share that my mother did not know that the root of my name, “Shani,” is believed to have Swahili roots and means “wonderful, marvelous?” Or perhaps share what I’ve learned about chaneques in Mexican folklore, the mischievous trickster figures who are guardians of nature? Or would I tell her about the meaning that I have conjured for myself?
About two decades ago, having tired of not having an answer to the question of my name’s meaning, I decided that if my mother had the power to create the name, then I had the power to create its meaning. As soon as I’d made the decision, the title of an Alice Walker book popped into my head and immediately I knew. Chanequa means “she who possesses the secret of joy.”
Chanequa means “she who possesses the secret of joy.”
One of the truest things that I know about myself is that my joy is indomitable. At least, it has yet to be subdued or extinguished by the troubles that I have seen: childhood abuse, parental abandonment and mental health issues, family financial struggles (including several years in which we were technically homeless), layoffs and underemployment, two breast cancer diagnoses, seemingly unrelenting health issues, and the continuing stress (and often downright misogynoir) of being a Black woman in higher education.
I know full well that I don’t look like what I’ve been through. A few months ago, I was at my rheumatologist’s office, being checked in by the same nurse who has greeted me at my appointments for ten years. Shortly after leaving the exam room, she returned. “Oh my God, I just read your chart. You’ve been through a lot! How do you always have a smile on your face?” It’s the same question that I’ve asked myself at times. How am I still smiling? And how is it that my smile feels genuine, despite everything that’s going on? It’s not just that I don’t look like what I’ve been through. I often don’t feel like it, either.
That’s not to say that I don’t experience anxiety, sadness, and anger. I feel all those things. But even at the height of those feelings, the joy is still there. And when it’s not there, I go in search of it. I get on the floor and play with my dog. I watch videos of babies and puppies (I have an Instagram saved collection of these videos). I color, craft, and do Lego botanical kits. I spend time with my extended family. I take walks and gaze up at the sky and marvel at how beautiful it is. I laugh at my mistakes. I laugh at other people’s laughter.
In Full Catastrophe Living, Jon Kabat-Zinn writes: “As long as you are breathing, there is more right with you than there is wrong, no matter how ill or how hopeless you may feel. But if you hope to mobilize your inner capacities for growth and for healing and to take charge in your life on a new level, a certain kind of effort and energy on your part will be required.” I cultivate joy as a discipline, attentive to finding it in life’s everyday moments, determined to ride this thing until the wheels fall off. In a death-dealing culture, joy is a form of resistance. I am decidedly oppositional in my joy.
“As long as you are breathing, there is more right with you than there is wrong, no matter how ill or how hopeless you may feel. But if you hope to mobilize your inner capacities for growth and for healing and to take charge in your life on a new level, a certain kind of effort and energy on your part will be required.” - Jon Kabat-Zinn
I am leaning into that during this Advent, as I wrestle to come to grips with the presidential election, as I dread the inauguration and the impending onslaught against immigrants, sexual and gender minorities, poor and working class people, Muslims, and people of color. I am cultivating joy in decorating my house, baking, and compiling this year’s list of books to gift to my niece, nephews, and cousins (yes, I am that person). I am cultivating joy by wearing brightly colored tights and sparkly sweaters even when I have nowhere special to go. I am cultivating joy in gathering with other Black women to meditate and with other Christian leaders to discuss how we plan our collective resistance to the incoming administration. I am cultivating joy by being held in community by people who are able to hold on to joy and hopefulness even when I am not.
I am cultivating joy by remembering this: God knew that we were going to screw this up and God came anyway. God looked into the muck and the mire of human life and decided to come down here, not so that God could fix it all and make the suffering go away, but to teach us to how live and love one another in the midst of it. That’s how much God loved us. And that is, indeed, reason for joy.
Incidentally, my water aerobics friend never asked the question of my name’s meaning. Perhaps next time I’ll volunteer it.
Practicing Advent Joy
Sometimes joy is not a matter of seeking, but instead a matter of noticing. Occasions for joy often show up in moments that are easy to overlook unless we slow down enough to pay attention. Here are a few prompts that can help you us pay attention.
Where do I feel joy in my body? Joy is not just an ephemera. It is something that we feel in our bodies. For me, joy feels like a smile in my heart.
What brings me joy? Pay attention to small signs of beauty, to moments that soften your stress and lift your spirit. If it is hard to identify sources of joy as an adult, it might be helpful to remember what brought you joy as a child.
Where do I resist joy because it feels undeserved, risky, or silly? It might be hard to allow ourselves to feel joy when we know that so many people are suffering. Perhaps it is hard to trust joy because it has been snatched from us before. Or maybe joy makes us feel vulnerable or unserious.
How can I cultivate joy as an act of resistance this season? Joy is a powerful antidote to the despair, burnout, and hopelessness that our current political and economic situation can instill.
If you really want to lean into the practice of joy, check out this video by the founder of laughter yoga, Dr. Madan Kataria. And yes, laughter yoga is a real thing and it works!
How are you cultivating joy during this season? Where are you struggling to find joy? Leave a comment and let us know.
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“Where do I resist joy because it feels undeserved, risky, or silly? It might be hard to allow ourselves to feel joy when we know that so many people are suffering. Perhaps it is hard to trust joy because it has been snatched from us before. Or maybe joy makes us feel vulnerable or unserious. “
You already know your own words. but sharing the quote that reverberated in my spirit and i’ll be reflecting on the days to come. thank you for this invitation!
I love the stories behind names. Your questions and suggestions about noticing joy are rich and give us lots to consider. I like this slant on the practice of joy, thanks.