I can’t think of one single memory that was the most joyful in my life. Not because I haven’t experienced joy, but because I can’t compare them and say one was better than the rest.
I think, in times of true joy, one is too enraptured in the moment to think and compare one instance of joy to the last.
Standing at the top of a mountain after a 12-hour climb; clouds, valleys, lakes and mountain-peaks spread out in dizzying vastness all around.
Hit a stride while running, and suddenly I feel weightless, legs propelling me forward so fast it feels almost like flying. Somehow, the burn in my chest makes it even better.
A harmonious zone when working on a restaurant line; body moving with dexterity and precision that the mind can barely keep up with, every team-member in tune to the other, working in a flow that is almost a dance.
When I get so lost in writing a story, that my hands can’t keep up with the thoughts flowing out of my mind, the words I am writing, always a few seconds behind my imagination.
Maybe it’s because I overthink things all the time, but for me, joy is being completely engaged in something, so much that I stop thinking and contemplating what I am doing, no longer wondering where my life is going or comparing this time to another.
Joyfully lost in the moment.