A Reflection on Joy
Joy is fleeting. You cannot hold it.
As I reflected on a quote I read today, my thoughts turned to my son’s school concert 13 years ago.
I didn’t know it then, but I wasn’t writing about the concert at all.
I was writing about something much quieter, and much harder to name.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about joy differently.
Not as something we chase or try to hold onto—but something we recognize when it briefly chooses us.
A line from William Blake’s poem Eternity has stayed with me this spring:
“Kiss the joy as it flies…”
The kind that appears, shifts, and disappears before we can fully grasp it.
Joy is fleeting, ungraspable. We meet it where it is—
in an ordinary moment that becomes, somehow, eternal in the sky of the mind.
Reading this again, I can see that’s exactly what happened that night.
I didn’t create the moment. I didn’t control it.
I simply noticed it—and, for a second, held it without trying to keep it.
I think now that joy might be a kind of justice we give ourselves—
the willingness to witness what is fleeting, and call it enough.
Here is that moment—
The following section is excerpted and adapted from a chapter in my book Mommy Musings: Lessons on Motherhood, Love, and Life.
The Moment I Didn’t Know I Was Writing About
I found a moment of joy during my son’s final elementary school concert—a nose-fizzing, eye-watering, break-your-heart-wide-open kind of joy.
In the black-and-white sea, a quick glance at the shoes revealed my James—the only boy in the band (having switched from violin to trumpet)—wearing unsanctioned red-and-black “kicks” (Manchester United colors).
The room’s light created a haze around his wild, tousled curls, giving the appearance of a halo—a quiet sign that our earlier clash over toothbrushing had been forgiven.
An Unexpected Shift
But my alchemy of joy didn’t occur during his song.
It happened as I listened to the orchestra’s rendition of “Ode to Joy.”
Beethoven’s symphony suddenly took on a new tenor as I fought back tears sure to ruin my mascara.
“Ode to Joy” might as well have been named “Ode to James,” because James—a fifth grader as I write this—will soon move on to middle school, with all of its lurking, pre-pubescent challenges.
The concert marked the end of another chapter in his childhood.
The Music Beneath the Moment
The music was magic.
I closed my eyes to the vibrato of memories. Before the bleating honks of the horn player, there was the low drone of the cello—and the dreadful wail of a beginning violinist, invariably joined by our pooch’s howl.
How James loved music.
From singing along with Baloo in Disney’s Jungle Story, to shaking maracas at an island library during a Nantucket monsoon, to belting “Won’t You Be My Valentine?” into a microphone, to chanting “Bar-ca” during a Barcelona training session—where his idol Lionel Messi plays—these moments fluttered like wings upon a bird’s breast.
A Life in Motion
“I don’t have an off button,” James once exclaimed as I poked him in the ribs in search of it.
He’s always a tilt-a-whirl of energy—kicking a soccer ball, throwing a football, shuffling, tumbling, and racing around the house with our dog Beck at his heels.
I admire his enthusiasm for life. It can be exasperating, but I never wanted to shut him down.
It’s been a gift to watch him learn, grow, and express himself.
You see, James plays with joy in his heart.
Worlds of Play
I’ve watched James and his friends slide in mud, hunt for frogs, swing, climb, jump, and tackle each other.
They invent games with names like “death football” and “keep-away-from-the-zombie-while-bouncing-on-a-trampoline.”
And when it gets dark, or dinner beckons, they resist leaving their worlds of play—scheming for sleepovers to extend their fort-building past twilight.
The Alchemy of Joy
Memories click-clacked like slides in an old-fashioned carousel until Beethoven’s masterpiece came to an end.
I opened my eyes to an applause-filled auditorium and joined in clapping my hands.
Something had shifted.
I had been transformed—if only briefly—by the alchemy of joy.
What Remains
I still think about that night.
Not because I held onto it—
but because, for a moment, I didn’t try to.
And maybe that’s what allowed it to stay.
Poetry as Practice