Contents
- Yuri Buida, writer, author of the books “Prussian Bride”, “Yellow House” (UFO, 1999, 2001), “Rather a cloud than a bird” (Vagrius, 2000) “So, alive”
- Vera Pavlova, poetess, author of 15 books, the last one is “Namesake/Children’s Albums” (preparing to be published in AST in 2010) “Ode to Joy”
- Mariam Petrosyan, author of the book “The house in which …” (Gayatri, 2009) “Unexpected joy”
Joy helps us take the first step towards happiness. Especially for Psychologies, writers Mariam Petrosyan, Yuri Buida and poetess Vera Pavlova wrote an essay where they shared their feelings of joy.
It inspires – we want to sing, dance, smile… Joy is the most vital human emotion. No, she is not the notorious rose-colored glasses, she is also aware of the dramatic aspects of our life. She does not close her eyes when faced with pain or injustice. Joy absorbs everything – and thus gives us a feeling of the fullness of existence.
A beautiful melody or a beautiful scenery always fills us with joy. But there is another way to get there. This is stated in the “Ethics” of the philosopher Benedict Spinoza (Academic Project, 2008): his book is the very desire for joy, a kind of guide, set out in the language of geometry in postulates, axioms and theorems proven by the author. This philosophical work convinces us that in order to achieve joy, we need to make an effort. Efforts of knowledge and understanding: after all, the deeper we know the world and man, his desires and weaknesses, the easier it is for us to accept and love them.
Joy is another name for love. Therefore, it has always been (and remains) a religious concept: the believer finds joy in feeling God, feeling that he is loved by Him. But it is not at all necessary to be a religious person in order to experience joy. You just have to be ready to meet her. Always ready. To really see everything that surrounds us. Truly hear. Open yourself to the world, nature, other people. Accept everything that passes through our lives – good and bad. Lively and deeply interested in everything around, find time to be and feel, touch, look and listen. And remember that if sadness is born in the absence of something, then joy arises from the realization of a deep connection with other people and the world. It comes from a clear understanding that we are living among the living. And since our existence will not last forever, let’s take advantage of this happy moment. And we will be happy for him.
“After the father’s funeral, the younger sister suddenly took out a clay cockerel whistle from some box: “He kept it among the most expensive things, but I don’t know why.” I was five years old when I traded this penny cockerel from a friend for a penknife stolen from my father: I really wanted this whistle, I had no strength to resist the temptation, although the voice of the clay cockerel was ugly, hoarse. Upon learning of this, the father became angry. I got it, and the cockerel, smashed to smithereens. I forgot about this whistle, but my father, it turns out, collected the pieces and glued them together with garlic juice, and then kept them among the most expensive things for more than forty years.
My father lived a hard life. From the age of twelve he worked on a collective farm, survived the terrible Belarusian and terrible Ukrainian famines, went through the war, the Stalinist camp, was ill for a long time and painfully. Words such as “joy”, “happiness”, “love” were not in his dictionary. Our relationship was not easy, sometimes very difficult: we did not talk for years – this happened. He generally did not get along well with people – he had no close, real friends. Like mine.
I recently went through old photos again. My father is wearing a Budyonnovka jacket, a tank helmet, and a long leather coat buttoned under his chin. His eyes are clear, but tired. And here is a rare picture: he laughs … And suddenly I remembered how we went with him for honey to a familiar forester, who lived seven or eight kilometers from our house. We went there early in the morning, in the cold, it was a pleasant walk. But I had to return back in the heat, and even with a load. I was, I think, eight or nine. I was tired, rubbed my leg, began to whimper. Father silently walked in front, not paying attention to me, and suddenly, when I moaned that I was thirsty, that it hurt me, that I couldn’t do this anymore, that’s all, that’s it, he turned around and said: “That means he’s alive.” And went on.
It means that he is alive… Now, when he is gone, I remember these words of his and at the same time feel a strange feeling of peace and quiet, clear joy. This strange joy seems to unite us, lift us above our quarrels, above the misunderstanding that we both suffered all our lives, being afraid to utter the words “happiness” or “love” aloud. And also this whistle, which he kept among the most expensive things … She smells of garlic, her voice is ugly, hoarse, but this is the voice of my joy, our joy, although I cannot explain what it is. I can’t and that’s it. “So he’s alive,” my father would say.
“Summer, the sun, a country road, a boy on a bicycle, loudly singing Beethoven’s Ode to Joy to the accompaniment of grasshoppers and birds: “Joy, an unearthly flame, a heavenly spirit that has flown to us!” This is a soloist. And the choir? Hug, millions, merge in the joy of one? Choir – here: the subway, rush hour, a traffic jam of people at the crossing, a nasal radio voice – use another transition – but how, it’s impossible to take a step! And suddenly, having reported: “Citizens passengers, go to …” And he stopped short. And a thousand-voiced laughter shook the dungeon. Joy epidemic. Equality and brotherhood.
Seven colors of joy: red – exultation, orange – fun, yellow – pleasure, green – serenity, blue – tenderness, blue – admiration, purple – euphoria. They shimmer like dewdrops in every moment of joy. Seven kisses correspond to them: Easter (the right cheek gets twice as much as the left), friendly (excellent cologne!), Midnight (at midnight), children’s (minus the first), parental (well, sleep!), knightly (I wanted to kiss my hand, got excited, missed, kissed the sleeve). And purple? Here – a kiss of kisses: a child, standing on tiptoe, kisses the mother’s immense belly, leaving for the hospital.
Long-awaited joy: a conditioned reflex of the Holiday. Unexpected joy: a tear of resentment is already creeping down her cheek when there is a knock on the door and a messenger appears with a basket of flowers. And the tear, not yet reaching the chin, becomes happy. The swiftness of joy: Like music, joy enters the bloodstream faster than oxygen. No, even faster: not at the speed of sound, but of light. And the blood is disinfected.
My joy, what are you? A treat from the hand of a trainer – well done, Kashtanka? The flag of the coach who marked the distance? Or – anesthesia (local – love, general – love)? Rhymes: youth, old age. The second one is more precise. The last word of the dying Pasternak: “Glad.”
“Joy is universal and at the same time individual. There are moments that please everyone, and there are moments that only a few are happy with. There is a long, endless list of universal joys. Although no matter how you stretch it, in childhood it is still longer …
Individual joy is always unpredictable, inexplicable. A flash – and a freeze-frame invisible to the rest of the world for me alone. There is tangible joy, if it is, for example, a hug – a flash of inner warmth. You hold such joy in your hands, you feel it with your whole body, but it is impossible to remember it. And visual delight can be stored in memory and included in a personal collection of pictures-memories. Turn into an anchor.
An eight-year-old son who took off on a trampoline and for a moment froze, arms outstretched, against the sky. A gust of wind suddenly whipped up bright yellow leaves from the ground. Why these particular pictures? It just happened. Everyone has their own collection. It is impossible to comprehend or repeat the magic of such moments. Taking a child to jump on a trampoline is easy. He might even be happier than last time. But the piercing moment of happiness will not be repeated, time cannot be stopped. It remains only to hide that previous, piercing away and store until it fades.
For me, only the joy of the sea is repeatable. The moment when it first opens up to the eye in all infinity, green, blue, sparkling, at any time of the day and in any weather. One can only wonder why you are separated from him for so long, why you don’t live close to something that can give happiness by the very fact of its existence, realizing that constant presence nearby would reduce this feeling to everyday routine, and still not believing that this is possible .
Closest to the sea – live music. She always gets through, has time to hurt, touch, please, pull out something deeply hidden … But she is too fragile. It is enough for someone to cough nearby, and the miracle is gone. And the most unpredictable joy is the joy of a happy day. When all is well in the morning. But as the years go by, those days become more and more rare. Because over time, the main condition for obtaining joy – carefreeness – completely disappears. But the older we are, the more precious these moments are. Just because they are rare. This makes them especially unexpected and valuable.”