I learned something about feeling joy in the moment from my three-year old grandson Lucas recently. He’s a happy, active child, enjoys being and experiencing whatever he finds in life. He and his parents visited me for a weekend, and I saw so many moments of his fully enjoying life, I almost missed their meaning for me. Nothing special happened, yet it was all special.
I took Lucas to the supermarket to get some milk, and decided to walk through every aisle with him. He half-walked, half-ran, eager to pick out all the things he recognized, calling them out with great pleasure: oranges, spaghetti, milk. He especially liked it when I asked him to find something I saw in the aisle before we got to it, like eggs, chips, and ice-cream. What joy he took in the freedom to move through the aisles, to recognize so many items, and find others, in the treasure hunt I had created.
On another day at home with him I decided to do some of my floor exercises, since I knew I would not have time for the gym that day. I invited Lucas to join me. He laid down on the floor next to me and I never laughed so much doing exercises. Lying on our backs and lifting our legs into the air was easy for him; his body so much more flexible than mine, and he wiggled his legs as they went up. Getting on our hands and knees I told him to alternate lifting his legs out to the side and I demonstrated what I meant—this exercise is called the fire hydrant— but he alternated kicking his legs up toward the back, gleefully saying I did it higher, Grandma. His pleasure seemed to come from just experiencing his body and attempting to follow my directions.
He doesn’t know that food shopping and exercising are chores, and that I am eager to check them off my list when I get them done. For him, they are just ways he can be himself, enjoying the movements and the stimulation he experiences.
Watching Lucas’ glee in the quotidian— experiencing joy that was absolute as he ran down the supermarket aisles, and as he moved his body in doing exercises— also brought me joy. And I wondered if I could capture that feeling now in the activities of my life. Perhaps I had it as a child, but as an adult I often feel weighted down with obligations, and with concerns about people who I care about, and about the challenges of aging. These creep into my life, like mud moving on a downslope, covering and coloring everything in its way.
What’s the meaning of this for me? I don’t expect to start taking pleasure in going down the supermarket aisles or doing my exercises, any more than I have in the past, except perhaps if I think of Lucas and how he enjoyed doing these. This is a joy of grandparenting. But I want to hold on to a belief that even in everyday activities—if I can see them in new ways, and experience my own engagement in them—there is pleasure to be had. Even now.
Reflections on Aging 