3 Small Items of Great Delight
Tapping into sound and silence
Are you joining me in a practice of delight? It’s a mindset, I’m learning. It asks you to be open to receiving gifts unexpected.
This is my new list, which I launched in the last issue. I hope you’ll read that issue and find inspiration in it, but the TL:DR is this: It’s a result of my goal to practise delight. It was taught to me by two artists who shared their delights with me. So far, this is what I know:
Delight is to be shared.
Delight is to be offered in friendship.
Delight is to be centred and made into art.
This week, my delights made me think about unexpected pleasure and which senses must be ignited in me to evoke a response. My awareness of sound is evident this week, and I want to think about this more deeply in the coming weeks. I had my hearing restored in one ear by surgery a couple years ago, and I’m still grappling with feelings associated with that privilege.
But the biggest takeaway for me this week is this: delight can be delivered in sound and in silence.
Delight No. 1 - Tap dancing
I was twelve when I attended a dance recital for the first time. My sister was performing after her first year of dance lessons. I have to admit, I remember little about her debut. What I do remember is how my heart beat in joy as I watched the tap dance performance.
A couple years later I tried it myself, leap-shuffle-ball-changing over and over in the kitchen, one of only two rooms in the house that weren’t carpeted (and who wants to tap dance in the bathroom?). I wasn’t very good, but it was fun to try. I am not a dancer, but I will dance.
With tap, it’s the sound of the tap itself. It resonates against my sternum and tickles my fancy, which in my imagination is located somewhere behind my stomach, if I had to guess, and below my soul.
That’s why I put down my phone and paid attention this week, when a dancer called Justin Jackson took the stage during this week’s episode of America’s Got Talent.
Tap isn’t just dancing to music, it makes the music better. It’s percussion. It’s rhythm. It can be as big or little as it needs to be. I will always put the phone down for a good tap number.
Delight No. 2 - The sounds of the playground
Our small town has a public park at its centre. It’s where the seniors have built gardens and a greenhouse. It’s where the town gathers on Remembrance Day and Canada Day. It’s where all the children go as soon as their parents allow them freedom. And when the warm weather finally comes, the water park becomes the picnic spot for hot and frazzled families.
Maybe your neighbourhood doesn’t have a park like this. You might compare it to a town park in a Hallmark film — without the Hallmark. Simply, it’s where we go to see our neighbours.
And thanks to the volunteer efforts of the playground association, each summer, twice a week, the park’s ballfield and grassy lawns become the sports centre for small children. Cars line the streets on three sides of the park, and parents arrive just in time toting lawn chairs and pulling small children. Grandparents stand nearby, having arrived early, of course, watching with pride. The town population increases by half, I’m sure. It’s the place to be. You’re sure to see someone you know. The kids are cute, too.
The town is lit those nights, not by lights, but by sound. Children are gleefully yelling, coaches are shouting their best encouragement, bikes are being thrown down on the grass as kids join their friends. Here’s a sample from my walk through the best sort of mélée.
Delight No. 3 - The morning light through my curtains
Delight sometimes arrives quietly. In the first light of morning, I feel it arrive with the first light.
When we bought our house, one of the biggest selling points for me was the number of windows. No longer would I look at apartment walls and yearn for daylight. The master bedroom, when we entered, was not huge by today’s standards, but the windows! Not only was there a large window on one wall, but another one on a second wall. We could see the 50-year maples through the 100-year-old glass and we were surrounded by leaves.
Even now, twelve years later, I will pull up the blinds, sit on the bed and gaze out into the trees, and I am floating in green or yellow.
In the morning, with half-closed eyes, delight arrives in silence as the sun rises behind the blinds and filters through the sheer curtains. The light moves and for only a few moments, it glows orange or red or yellow. Then the sun rises and day arrives.
Those brief seconds, no more than a minute, are joyful respite.
What delights did you encounter this week? What arrived unexpected? Are you, too, more drawn to sound? Tell me in the comments.
Before the next issue of 3 Small Things of Great Delight, I will be issuing my other feature, where I talk about books and book coaching. I have something new to help writers move their idea onto paper, and I’m really excited to unveil it.