What is Joy, Anyway?
On finding joy amidst the grief, holding space for late autumn, and spending time with our ancestors
There is a photo of me from when I was four, maybe five, playing on the beach. I’m wearing my Esmeralda swimsuit which, at the time, felt as beautiful as the most extravagant ballgown. My smile is all cheeks and joy and my hands are blurry with the motion of a neurodivergent child who has never known a moment of stillness.
This photo is my Roman Empire*.
When I started with my current therapist, I talked about that girl a lot. The way she would bubble with excitement over any little thing that caught her attention. The fearlessness with which she spoke her mind, and certainty with which she knew what she wanted. Most of all, I’d talk about her joy. A joy that, as of late, has felt almost impossible to access.
When my therapist asks why, it’s easy to point fingers. At the traumas that have burrowed deep inside my body. At late-stage capitalism and how expensive groceries are when you live in the mountains. At my partner, who somehow isn’t bothered by the film of dust building on our bathroom mirrors. At the family and friends who want my attention when I barely have enough bandwidth to brush my teeth. At the small town I grew up in that prized productivity performance over rest and self-respect. At the news, which keeps revealing one global atrocity after the next.
There are countless reasons to grieve these days, and I often wonder if it’s possible to contain joy when I am holding so much space for pain and processing. Perhaps ignorance really is bliss. Perhaps it is impossible to be awake in this world and know joy.
But then I think of that little girl. And I think of how hard she cried whenever pain or sadness or anger crept in. I think about how deeply and fully she felt every wound; how she would stay up late whispering her fears to the stuffed golden retriever that shared her bed. And still, she knew joy better than most. Not by holding her tears back and pretending everything was fine, but by letting the things that made her smile take up just as much space as the things that made her hurt.
Last week, my partner and I took our dog on a hike around Spooner Lake. For weeks I’d been looking forward to this hike. Specifically, the vibrant aspens that are known to show off their golden colors in autumn, contrasting against the dark pines. But when we got there, the aspens mostly looked like this:
We’d driven 40 minutes for this hike, and we were too late. I was disappointed to say the least and had to fight the urge to throw in the towel and drive home. But we’d picked up drinks on the way, and the spiced citrus mocha I was sipping was honestly one of the best things I’ve ever drank. And the weather was perfect. And since the colors were gone, we pretty much had the trail to ourselves, which made navigating it with a disabled dog a lot easier.
About 30 minutes into the walk, we came upon a grove that was still holding onto its leaves. Sure, it wasn’t the 3-mile walk through the golden forest of my autumnal dreams, but it was still breath-taking. And that’s when I realized: this is it. This is joy. It’s been here the whole time, it’s just a matter of whether or not I take the time to keep walking through the dead trees to find it.
*For those of you not on TikTok, your Roman Empire is the thing you think about every day.
Auntie Sarah’s Spiritual Homework
Celebrate late autumn, your way.
This time of year can be difficult for me. I love autumn, but as we reach the end of October, the threat of winter is ever-looming. The temperatures drop dramatically where I live (our first snow fell today!) and we’re checking the weather app every day for signs of snow. But there are gifts in this season, too.
I get to start putting a fire in the fireplace. The hot cocoa moves from the back of the pantry to the front. This is usually the time of year when I make a solid dent in my TBR pile. Suddenly, I’m in the mood to knit.
Your homework this week is to identify one thing you can do this time of year that feels like a celebration of the season. Maybe there’s a soup recipe you’ve been dying to try (I added wild rice and kale to this ginger-squash soup and fell in love). Perhaps you’ve always been curious about adult coloring books or want to learn how to crochet. Maybe it’s simply buying a new book and spending a few hours at a cozy coffee shop as you flip through the pages. Find your thing and put it on your calendar. Make it a priority. And, if you can, try to notice the little joys that exist here, too.
Offering of the Week: Rune Reading
“The rune casting was incredible. I was so taken aback by [Sarah’s] empathy, intuitiveness, and insightfulness. It was so powerful and structured really well. I felt very seen during the reading and was making connections in my mind that I hadn't really made before.” -C.T.
There are no words for my love of divination. It started with Tarot, and I still love reading cards, but as I’ve connected more with my ancestors from Northern Europe, I’ve been drawn to incorporate runes into my practice. Casting runes for someone is a unique and intimate experience, as the runes get straight to the heart of the issue and do not hold back.
Channeled Wisdom from Sarah’s Ancestors
One of my ancestors, Dorothea, was a psychic and a medium. I work with her often when channeling the wisdom of the oracle for my clients. Today, with the candles lit and the altar adorned in flowers, she makes her presence known and offers the following wisdom.
It is okay to be broken hearted. Whether you’re mourning the loss of life in Gaza and Israel, feeling the pain of our mistreated Mother Earth, or dealing with some other heartbreak all your own, Dorothea wants you to know that your grief is seen, held, and welcome here. We often try to breeze past our grief without taking time to sit with it, and the three of swords invites us to do the opposite. This card comes at a time when the pain is heavy and needs to be witnessed. So Dorothea is here to witness your pain, and invites you to do the same.
My great-great grandmother Adele was High Priestess of a church of mysticism is San Francisco in the 1950s. She showed her devotion through poetry and, in her honor, I have cultivated this space. Here I will share poetry that ignites our imagination and connects us to the mysterious and the mystic.
Instructions on Not Giving Up by Ada Limón, in her book The Carrying More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor's almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate sky of spring rains, it's the greening of the trees that really gets to me. When all the shock of white and taffy, the world's baubles and trinkets, leave the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath, the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin growing over whatever winter did to us, a return to the strange idea of continuous living despite the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then, I'll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I'll take it all.
In the 16th century, my great-aunt many generations back lived in Dordrecht, in the Netherlands, where she helped care for her 16 siblings. Josina loves to share her recipes, hearth magick, and seasonal workings. In this space, I share her words and wisdom with you.
Whether you celebrate Samhain, Day of the Dead, All Saints Day, or some other form of ancestral veneration, we’re coming up on that time of year. Some of you talk to your ancestors daily, others are just starting to consider what ancestral work looks like. Regardless of where you are on this journey, I invite you to set the table for your ancestors this week.
If you speak to your ancestors, ask what they would like for dinner. If you don’t have that relationship, make whatever feels right. Then, as you set the table, set a spot for your ancestors, too. You can even put out photos or trinkets that belonged to them. When you serve dinner, serve them a plate and as you eat, tell stories about your ancestors, reminisce on who they were to you, and express gratitude for what they’ve taught you. Your ancestors are near these days, and they are eager to spend time with you, if only you’ll make a little space for them.
With love and a hot cup of tea,
Josina