Forbading Joy

I enjoy biking (bicycle, rather than motorcycle) to work. I really do. Yes, it requires me to get up early to get on the road. I’ve gotten my things ready ahead of time, like a change of clothes, cleanup supplies, makeup, lunch for the day, and other miscellaneous things necessary to move through my day. I arrive sweaty at my workplace, and like all Disney princesses eventually do, I change into a normal person once I arrive, so as to blend in with all the others.

Today in particular, as I was riding to work, my mind slowed down. I smelled the delicious scent of the corn fields. Once the corn stalks have grown, and the sun dries them to a complete light brown color, the smell is simply delicious. It’s a smell that’s a cross of sugar cookie, a fresh baked pie and bread just out of the oven. I can never put my finger on it, because it’s not just one scent. But as I ride by these vast fields of dried corn stalks, it smells like that of a grandmother’s kitchen. Sweet, comforting aromas that make me smile. I smile even without realizing I’m smiling. I just am. I know how fortunate I am. To begin my day in this manner is beyond words. Simply simple. Nothing fancy, just watching the world go by as I make my way to the organized chaos of what we all call work. I don’t think about work, typically, while on my bike. That’s my time. My time to relax, drift into lands of a blank mind. I’ve traveled these roads on many occasions, but yet every time, it’s brand new. I see new things. Today, a truck pulls out from their gravel road driveway onto the street in front of me. A dog - their dog - is desperately trying to run beside the truck, as if saying, You forgot me! As this truck pulls onto the road, I watch the dog try to keep up with the truck that is pulling away slowly, as if it’s unsure to actually leave, or turn back around. The dog runs after the truck until the truck is no longer in its site. The dogs Owner is now gone. Off to work, most likely. And the dog has given up the fight to keep up. It can’t, and it knows that. Slowly, the dog turns around to head back down the road, and back to its home. To wait. To wait for it’s Owner to come back. As I then bike by the dog, it looks at me. The dog does not bark or chase me, but if it could talk, it might have said, "Why? Why do My People leave me?"  Even the look on the dog's face speaks volumes. The dog makes it way back toward the gravel road, toward the house, where it will wait for their return.
It's at that moment I think about my own animals. What are they thinking as they see us come and go? If I could just shut the front gate, down our gravel road, and put a CLOSED sign up, I would. And then I would stay here on the Farm all the time. I'd leave for things I need, then hurry back home. I know in my own mind this would never work. I need space to roam, and enjoy doing things. So I re-analyze my intentions and realize it's more about scarcity, than it is anything else. Being out in the world with people brings about the need to be vulnerable. I've improved in one particular area of my life - that of being me, more like me, and true to me. But the vulnerable part? It's hard. I’m “okay” at it at home, but out in the world, I'm not that great at allowing others to see me, should I chose that. Maybe it's because I don't want others to know me or see me. I'd like to be invisible as I come and go to work. The words "belonging" and "vulnerability" are things I'm working on. I know this because as I bike to work, I'm thinking how if the people at my new work saw me at home, they may realize there's so much more to me, and could see through my quiet nature while at work. I don't know these people. They don't know me, and they don't understand the things I do. There's lots of questions about riding my bike to work, drinking unsweet tea, and eating banana and peanut butter. Things like, "Is that your lunch". I'm a mystery, but aren't we all?
As I begin to come out of my Cyndi-shell, I'm required to be vulnerable to those around me. Answer questions, and show who I am. If I chose not to, I'm allowing scarcity to thrive. I forbade joy and happiness when I don't allow myself to be vulnerable. Forbidding joy is something many of us are experts at. For example, I think how great the chickens, sheep and barn cats are doing. They are thriving, in a rhythm that brings them continuity and comfort. I love seeing this, and it warms my heart. We work so hard at creating a safe, nurturing environment. But then, what if something happens? What if another predator gets one of them? What if they get sick again? I'm doing it again. I'm putting my protective armor on. I'm forbidding the joy of it all, in an effort to protect myself from any "possible" pain that could arise. Can I not enjoy the moment without thoughts of doom? Because after the thoughts of doom, come the thoughts of combating it. Well, if something bad does happen, then........insert here....problem solving for a problem not yet occurred. Forbading joy once again.
The book I’m reading (for the fourth time), Daring Greatly, by Brene Brown, shows through research we start developing this forbading joy thing and armour-suit-wearing at an early age. Middle school to be exact. Then we live our lives saying, “This life I live is great! Uh oh, that must mean something bad is about to happen.” We steal our own happiness from ourselves, thinking we are protecting ourselves and preparing for the worst. Guilty.
As I ride on my bike, twisting and turning down numbered roads where few people actually live, I pass fields corn, cows and occasional houses. I smell the smells of life. I’ve been working for awhile about not thinking the worst. My faith trumps those thoughts, most of the time. Yet when I’m tired or feel out of control of a given situation, I find myself armour-ing up, in preparation for something bad that’s not likely to happen. I love it that this book can bring this to my mind in a way I can translate it in my life, and find solutions. Instead of thinking these thoughts of what bad things might could happen, I do this upon her recommendation: I say quietly Pain, Pain, Pain. Because that’s really what I’m feeling. The pain of the What Ifs. So instead of making silly game plans in my head of what I’m going to do “when” my chicken flock falls victim to illness, I’m going to push it away with my acknowledgment of how much it hurts, and steer towards joy instead.
Starting my day off with joy, out on the road, is my favorite-est way to begin another beautiful, potential-filled extravaganza. Minus pain, plus joy equals where I try to be. I try to keep scarcity in my rear-view mirror, and wholehearted living in plain view.
Pretend windshield wipers are needed from time to time, to clear the way,
Cyndi