by Alice Harding

There is something deeply strange about writing on joy right now. About the lingering pleasure of finding a sprig of rosemary on the first nice day of the year. About bringing it home and remembering it. Three years ago, I would have dropped any happiness I carried as soon as something heavier or more agonizing came along. But something has shifted. I think something has shifted inside many of us.

At the beginning of the pandemic, I bristled whenever anyone would say, “This is an opportunity to slow down and reflect,” or “Now we can all think about what really matters—” These sentiments struck me as annoyingly privileged, as if the terrifying global disaster I was mired in was just a mental health day for them. I had revised my 2020 goals when it became obvious that those big ones weren’t going to happen. I started an essay about why it was a good idea to delay graduate school, why I should settle in one place, but I couldn’t finish it. How did anyone finish anything?

But maybe I didn’t finish the essay because it didn’t feel like art. Or like a choice. I was settling because I was stuck. I was delaying school because I couldn’t go. If the virus didn’t kill me, it seemed, then the wildfire smoke that moved in the next day might. And if not that, my own propensity for catastrophizing.

But in spite of all that, it seems...those annoying, well-meaning people were right. Whatever our collective trauma, I did inherit a singular focus.

Amid the meltdown, small things (coffee rituals. How trees look. Finding a really good spice blend.) took on a dazzling importance. I watched the seasons change in my parents’ backyard. When I finally felt comfortable going outside again—not just on walks by myself but doing things with other people – I was more aware than I had ever been.

And as things continue to inch toward normal, I still cling to the small joys, because I still need them.

When my friend says, “It’s hard not to feel like everything I’m doing is pointless,” everything I think to say sounds as annoying as those people I heard in 2020. It’s not because I don’t understand; it’s because pointlessness is my own fear. I understand that fear so deeply, I worry I’ll come off like a person claiming we can will ourselves out of despair, when what I’m trying to say is:

I can’t be a nihilist because it would kill me.

So instead, I listen. Because what can I say? And perhaps that’s all they really want.

But even if I can’t say anything for them, I still carry a sprig of rosemary for myself.