There’s a pottery place here in Asheville that I love, East Fork. Their pieces are elegant, beautiful, solid, graceful, a pleasure both to look at and to use.
And their email newsletters are a joy to read. They highlight a new product, sometimes an employee, and always end with a poem.
JOY | by Carl Sandburg
Let a joy keep you.
Reach out your hands
And take it when it runs by,
As the Apache dancer
Clutches his woman.
I have seen them
Live long and laugh loud,
Sent on singing, singing,
Smashed to the heart
Under the ribs
With a terrible love.
Let joy kill you!
Keep away from the little deaths.
Seventeen years ago my roommate at the time told me she was getting married and I needed to find a new home. The year was 2000, in San Francisco, and the dot com bubble had not yet burst. I showed up to open houses to find dozens of applicants ahead of me, cash deposit in hand, bidding on places of questionable character. I knew I would have to pay more to move from a shared place with a roommate to a place on my own, but I wasn’t prepared for the rents that were twice, and sometimes three times as much, as I had been paying, for places that were twice, and sometimes three times less nice, than where I had been living. After weeks of looking, the move-out date was approaching and I still didn’t have a place to live. I saw an ad for a studio on Craigslist, asked if I could see it that afternoon, left work early to beat the rush of applicants, and met the agent on the sidewalk. We walked up three flights of stairs, she opened the door, I walked into the hallway and said, “I’ll take it.” She looked perplexed. “Don’t you want to see the rest of the apartment?” “Nope, this is great.” It was clean, it was in a quiet neighborhood, and it was more or less (much more) in my budget.
I had a housewarming party a week later. Friends crowded in to the tiny studio; we toasted to new beginnings. And I received what would become one of my favorite gifts of all times. A simple vase with blue glass edging, with a note to invest in a $5 fresh bouquet of flowers each week. Since then, I’ve picked a small bouquet each week and arranged it in this vase that has followed me from that studio to multiple other homes. And it continues to bring me as much joy now as it did that first week in my new studio, seventeen years ago.
Yesterday was a day filled with devastation and joy.
I awoke to the news of the earthquake in Nepal, one of my favorite countries. Nepal was the first country where Room to Read had projects. During my tenure there, I visited Nepal several times, and each time I stepped off the plane in Kathmandu, I felt magic in the air. When I think of Nepal, I think of hospitality, generosity, and overwhelming kindness. As I read stories of the earthquake throughout the morning, I wondered if my former colleagues and friends and their families were safe; but I also mourned for the hundreds, and then thousands, of people reported dead. I mourned the devastation and destruction of a beautiful, resilient country.
Yet, it was also a day of great joy. Two incredibly dear friends were married. The wedding was in Petaluma, on a farm, in the middle of the countryside. We were surrounded by rolling hills, friends, and love. Every moment of the evening was filled with delight: lovely vows, a ferris wheel, raucous laughter, delicious food, great music, never ending dancing, quiet laughter, and hugs.
Unexpectedly, throughout the day, the one constant was gratitude. I’m thankful that I know the beauty of Nepal, and the kindness of her people. I’m thankful for every colleague and friend I hear from in Nepal, letting us know they are safe. I’m thankful for the relief efforts that are already commencing in Nepal. But most of all, I’m thankful for the long-standing friendships and the people in my life that I love unconditionally, with whom I can share both the devastation and the joy.