Joy in Small Places
Three seemingly friendly wasps whisk their way around my narrow, unkempt backyard. I don’t understand the nature of their flight patterns, but they appear to buzz about without clear direction, drawing scribbles through the air like a happy toddler with new crayons. A nearby cluster of succulents is draped in a blanket of spider webs, and I flinch when the wasps approach them. Sure enough, they buzz away from the webs, steering clear in the nick of time, and fly off to scribble a new picture across my yard.
This little yard, with its wasps and webs and crispy grass, is where I often find myself drinking an afternoon coffee, journaling, or simply lying on my back and aging as the clouds pass. In it, I’ve been creative and I’ve been calm. I’ve watched the wasps fly out of my yard, and I’ve felt connected to the many neighbors I imagine their paths crossing. In this yard, I feel joy.
I’ve also cried in this yard. I’ve sat on the cement step, slouched over my knees with a washcloth to my face to catch tears and cry-snots. I’ve written all caps, angry letters to the universe, in the same yard where I’ve felt so connected to the universe through the wasps and their ambitious wings.
In my yard, I’ve contemplated my life and its purpose, my values, and my place in the world. I’ve felt the overwhelming vastness of this planet and the complexity of its beings. When my mind is open, I’m uprooted from this familiar space and into far away cities, countries, communities and their cultures. It’s beautiful and shocking to puzzle over our strange world and its limitless beings, experiences, and ideas. For a moment, I’m struck by this infinitude. But then, I’m here. I’m in my cozy yard with my coffee and my journal. The crispy, beige grass crinkles under my cat as she chases the wasps, and for the time being, the universe is much smaller.
Just beyond my backdoor is a refuge, a playground, and a pathway to infinity. In it, I can withdraw beneath a blanket of webs. I can fly myself and embody the fearless wasps. Or, like the succulents that have been here much longer than I have, I can be still, calm, and rooted here in this comfortable soil. I’m grateful for my tiny yard. It has its place in this giant world, and when I’m in it, so do I.
