On Locating Love and Joy

a letter about Ross Gay's INCITING JOY, Anna Hogeland's THE LONG ANSWER, and otherwise making sense of the world

Dear friends,

Hello! Happiest of weekends! I’ve missed this little space of mine—what a delight it is to be back. I write to you once again from half-term, coming this time after a dizzying five weeks of more lesson plans and students making me laugh and other outside projects and the news that I will remain at my current school next year as a permanent member of staff (!). Excitement galore, I’m telling you.

Usually, I start my letters with a long-winded introduction in which I slowly piece together my thoughts that relate to a book I’ve recently read, but today, I’d like to jump right into it. What do you think about joy? I ask because I’m considering today’s newsletter, informally, as my manifesto on it. I wear my own joy on my sleeve, a self-admitted “glass half full” sort of gal. You will not be shocked to know that I describe my teaching as “relentlessly positive”; that my family lovingly teases me for my overly sunny outlook; and that I was voted “Most Likely to Brighten Your Day” in high school. All of which is to say: my relationship with joy is quite prominent, and it’s something I do pride myself on.

I find a kindred spirit in my joyful approach in Ross Gay, author of the delightful The Book of Delights and the equally delightful Inciting Joy. With those titles, is it any surprise Gay is a man who also looks to life with seemingly boundless curiosity and optimism? I know I say this about many books, and I promise I always mean it, but please do also believe me here: Inciting Joy will be one of the best books I read this year. I finished it feeling affirmed in my belief that there is good in the world, and if there’s one thing you leave this newsletter with, let it be motivation to grab a copy for yourself.

But whether you do or not, let us examine the obvious: it's tempting to say that Gay “chooses” joy as a way of life. It’s tempting to say that I do the same. But what I find most compelling about Inciting Joy is how it complicates the narrative that joy is an instinct (some people are not joyful), a choice (joy is dependent on your will), or a privilege (joy is only gifted to a lucky few). Indeed, one of the collection’s central arguments is that we all deserve to experience joy and that lacking the ability to access joy (because of trauma, systemic oppression, etc., etc.) is itself an injustice. Here, joyful living morphs from something that is simply “nice to have”—what a world you must live in to be so happy!—into a human right, something we must demand for both ourselves and for each other.

Gay probes our understanding of joy further, preemptively addressing anyone who would read this and argue that joy is still trivial in the face of sorrow. He believes joy and sorrow can (must) co-exist; one does not negate the other. In fact, we might treat sorrow and joy as two sides of the same coin, if that coin is how we cope with life.

I find this idea both a comfort and a provocation. What motivates joy, really? Try this: when I’m angry or want to complain, I will sometimes feel as if I’ve wronged my (joyful) self. Of course, we humans are so much more nuanced than subscribing to a single emotion can ever allow, and I appreciate the advice I commonly receive in return which is to allow myself to feel what I need to feel. But I do also know that intense anger and judgment don’t sit right in my body. I’ve felt myself be snappier lately—chalk it up to too much to do, too little time—and I’ll be honest, I don’t like it. Expressing joy is when I feel most myself, and so I crave its eventual return, eager for the sense of equilibrium I know it to provide.

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Another book I read and adored recently was Anna Hogeland’s The Long Answer, a sparse meditative novel that follows a woman, also named Anna, as she attempts to have a child. Interspersed throughout her account of this process are vignettes of other women she encounters and their own relationships with motherhood and pregnancy.

The Long Answer is not inherently joyous. In fact, I would describe it as deeply melancholic. Anna, the main character, is grieving a lack of certainty, and we grieve with her. Many of the women we meet are women that Anna will never meet again. These are strangers, and there are secrets. But what does permeate throughout the novel is a sense of love, in so much as we see life be cruel and still characters are tender. What happens if we look at their loving and living as one and the same? If joy invites us to find pleasure, love asks us to commit to care.

The book ends with a chapter in which Anna reflects on her relationship with her old sister and, more generally, the many ways that love can manifest. Upon finishing, we could argue that she seeks one sort of love and finds love in another form. This is true, that’s one way to read it, but it feels too simplistic to me. I believe that what Anna (re-)discovers is that the world has no conditions on love, that these intangible things we are led to think are located only in our relationships with others are in fact always on offer, again and again and again.  

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Where does this leave us? We have a right to joy. Joy is balancing. Love is living. The world gifts us both.

Since I was 13, I’ve chosen a word of the year in lieu of setting any hard-and-fast resolutions. For 2023, fittingly, I settled on love. This was inspired in part, I must admit, by my desire to celebrate non-romantic/non-sexual love in a society that sees such love as “less than.” But I also chose it because I’m interested in what it means to live a life motivated by joy and love. I suppose this is me being deliberately conscious in aligning what I value with what I do—and I don’t really know what I’m trying to say beyond this, but I do know that there’s a point nestled in here, somewhere.

Pardon me for another attempt: I’m currently participating in a wonderful online course called The Barnraisers Project. Over ten weeks, we meet as a small cohort to discuss how we as white people can organize other white people towards anti-racist action (more information here if you want to read about it—I couldn’t recommend it more highly). The thinking we do together is hard because what we are trying to tackle (that is, racism and white supremacy and deeply entrenched systems of oppression) is hard. But it’s also lovely, because all of us are gathering because we believe in the very real possibility of a better, more equitable future. And I suppose that’s why I continually champion joy and love and warmth in my approach to this messy thing called life, as it’s within these qualities that I find some purpose and meaning.

Perhaps this is also why I’ve been slow to write this particular newsletter. (Have you ever let a draft sit as if in a timeout? That was this piece for me, with you.) By acknowledging so publicly that I give considerate thought to how I live, does it make my love less genuine? More artificial? And is the line between advocating joy and promoting toxic positivity as thin as it feels? And why is it that after writing 1500 words I feel as if I’ve written nothing at all?

I know that joyful living is not as easy as saying we must choose joy and love in the face of so much sadness and evil and injustice; that is naïve. Nor am I advocating for a life of toxic positivity (as I feared above), in which we claim that everything bad that occurs is due to our own negative outlook; that is harmful. I think the answer, rather, is remembering that joy and love don’t disappear, even if we don’t feel them at every single moment. Knowing this, would we all feel more empowered to love with abandon? To submit ourselves to joy? How would that change the world?

As this has become a patchwork of media, I hope you don’t mind me finishing with a song, my current tune of choice whenever I sit on the tube:

If you want to share what has brought you joy this week, I am, as always, all ears. Otherwise, here’s to loving loudly and deeply and proudly as often as we can. I want to and choose to believe it: love, as they sing, does always win.

Big hugs,
Bella

P.S. Things I’m Consuming

Another newsletter, another round of recommendations! I bring to you yet another eclectic mix, but such is my taste in art and media (hehe). :~)

+ Standing at the Sky’s Edge: To celebrate my half-term, I booked a ticket to see this new musical, playing now until the end of March at the National and which uses the music of artist Richard Hawley. I found it a lovely, if slightly too long, production, but I’m absolutely obsessed with the original cast recording. I’ve listened to little else this week—give me beautiful harmonies any day!

+ The Lesbiana’s Guide to Catholic School: For fans of YA contemporary titles, Sonora Reyes’ debut novel—about a teenager navigating crushes and coming out at a new school—is a delight and a half. If you have a soul, you’ll find it hard not to smile while reading.

+ Gates and Portals: On a recent day trip, I spent a free hour experiencing Marina Abramović’s newest participatory exhibit. The Internet tells me it’s about religion, but I think it’s far more interesting to analyze it through the lens of control and compliance. If you find yourself (for whatever odd reason!) in the Oxford area, do check it out.

+ Abbott Elementary: Am I incredibly late to the party on this one? Yes, absolutely. Am I Janine in my own school? Also yes. Do I love this gem of a show? 100%. The only shame is that Season 2 is not yet available to UK viewers—catch me counting down the days to March 1st!