A Note about the Evidence of Joy
Crow's feet and dilated pupils
My friends wear the most beautiful smiles. It is not in the teeth. It is in the flesh at the sides of the eyes, wrinkled and folded. Joy alters the morphology of the face completely. Over time it creates the infamous battleground of crow’s feet and nasolabial folds.
The times I have felt most reassured of my value as a human being this past year have almost all involved a smile like an angel’s kiss. Usually the smile is accompanied by laughter. The evidence of joy is undeniable in the body language underlying both: dilated pupils, characteristic crinkles aroudn the eyes, some other tiny details I could not tell you but can nevertheless perceive within a split second of their occurence. I question the authenticity of everything because most of what we do as humans is inauthentic, but proof of my friends’ joy, worn on their faces like an earthquake splitting the earth apart from below, heals me deep within. I could kiss their feet. I could cry.
I might be dramatic, but I doubt anything in the world is as valuable to me as sharing moments of joy with my friends. Maybe that makes me selfish? When they exude joy around me—because of me—I know I am safe and wanted, and that makes me feel good. When that happens I know I am doing something right, and I can relax a little. If the person I am now is capable of instigating joy so earnest and beautiful, then the person I am now is enough. Aha! Proof! That might be the reassurance I have been seeking since adolescence. Almost no one has shared evidence of joy with me until this year. Maybe both my friends and I can consider ourselves lucky. Maybe we both do. I know I do.
The look of love I have seen in eyes meant only for me has changed me. It slows time into an amber stretch where I am absorbed in a sense of existence. As the moment elapses, I begin to think, What am I? I love the look of love. I would fall into it if I could.
It reminds me of a page out of an old Dr. Seuss book I read as a little girl. (Fuck Dr. Seuss by the way.) After a bit of Googling today, I found it: I Had Trouble in Getting to Solla Sollew. During a long night of tossing and turning in an uncomfortable bed while it thunders and rains outside, the little creature in the book dreams of “sleeping on billowy billows of soft silk and satin marshmallow-stuffed pillows.” THAT is precisely how I feel when my friends look at me with love. Evidence of their joy brings me a supreme satsifaction and comfort. I could die happy right there.
Unfortunately for the little creature in the book, the feeling only comes in a dream. They wake up to an unfortunate reality.
Trust issues housed within a disorganized attachment style prevent me from fully falling into the soft embrace of love. No evidence of joy is really enough, especially not when I feel upset after, say, someone else’s actions have led me to doubt my worth. I will second-guess my friends and I am sorry for that.
Pretty please, universe, let the feeling of joy be real for me forever. Let me not wake to realize I was dreaming after all.