(In light of the last post, I sound a little bipolar, but it's just two sides of the same coin.)
The only succinct name I can think of is joi de vivre but that's probably because it's French, which makes it sound fancier than "joy of life". I'm not talking about the feeling you get when you're sitting on a couch wearing flannel in front of a fireplace during a blizzard. I'm not talking about the feeling you get when you are physically lifted out of slumber by the smell of bacon and coffee. Those are both quiet niceties that make you think, Wow, isn't life great.
I'm talking about a loud nicety, to put it poorly. It's a sudden attack of wanting to shout and dance and twirl and run and laugh until your sides ache. This thing might come upon you without warning. It could be the result of seeing a stranger help a woman stow her luggage in the overhead bin. It could come from standing on top of a mountain. It could come after one bite of cantaloupe, or an hour of digging in the garden.
Fine if it strikes you while you're alone in your room. You can carry on and raise a ruckus. Fine if it strikes you in the middle of a line dance. You can kick your heels and do jazz hands and smile so hard it feels like your face is going to split. But pity the person if it comes upon them in a public place where decorum reigns.
Like a library. You know I love libraries, and I'm not opposed to keeping them quiet. That's all good and reasonable, but oh dear, if you're struck at once by this fever of gladness, and you happen to be in a library? All you want to do is go galloping through the non-fiction and hallooing through the reference section. Or an airport. All you want to do is run at top speed and kick your heels and quote great quotes with great gusto. But everyone's just walking through the terminal, rolly suitcases in hand, getting where they need to go.
The decent half of me thinks that's right and fine. Keep public spaces free of uproar. Maintain dignity and decorum. This is the half of me that likes wearing pearls. Libraries should be quiet. Women should cross their legs and men should take off their hats indoors. This is the half of me that likes tea parties. There is a time for uproarious ruckus, but it's mostly confined to sporting events and celebratory parades. This is the half of me that likes teacher cardigans.
The indecent half of me thinks that's lulling the world into a calm, dignified stupor. Dignity is for Presidents, and there's only one of them at a time. Decorum is for board meetings, but only if it's conducive to getting things done, whatever gets done in board meetings. This is the half of me that races down the pasture on a horse without a saddle. I mean, what if we slowly lost our ability to see in color because we became so sedate? There is so much to cry out and dances to dance and grassy hills to roll down. This is the half of me that climbs trees and hangs upside down from chin-up bars by my ankles.
I mean. The people who once walked in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who walked in darkness, light has dawned on them. (paraphrase from Isaiah) We have been given great and precious promises, and a hope that is an anchor for the soul. That promise has a name. His name is JESUS. He is our rescuer, our only hope, our source of life. HULLO. That's enough to make me want to twirl through an airport and wrestle tigers and sing musical theater songs from the top of a maple tree.
LOVE TO YOU,
LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE
(that was me hollering)
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