Joy Lessons is my way of empowering women to find stillness in a chaotic world. It’s all about thriving, not just surviving.

Back in 2015, I found myself tunneling my out of a quagmire, and in a desperate moment, I remembered my grandmother’s cure for impossible seasons. When I was a child, she gave me daily assignments. The goal was to find itty bitty miracles in her backyard.

But all these decades later, I wasn’t sure her ideas would work. I was no longer a robust, impressionable child. I was a senior citizen: I didn’t have unlimited time to unravel my knotty existence.

I began by scribbling a list of ordinary activities that usually brought comfort. I had a passion for zinnias, chess pie, dogs, homegrown tomatoes, and setting the table with mismatched china. My cooking was hit or miss, but the simple acts of chopping, stirring, and kneading were soothing. They reminded me that change was possible. Diced onions are essential for chili and beef stew. Whisking flour and butter will create a roux—the foundation for béchamel sauce. Bread dough can be shaped into knots, loaves, or even carved into edible art.

I learned how to find hushed moments in everyday activities. Sketching the garden shed on a rainy morning. Digging holes for a hundred daffodil bulbs. Waiting for cardinals to visit the feeders after a snowstorm. I realized that happiness is fleeting but a foundation of joy keeps you afloat during the inevitable dark moments.

The transformation wasn’t without challenges. Some days, I didn’t want to identify the weird mushrooms I’d found in the front yard. It was easier to watch reruns of Doc Martin. After a while, my nursing education kicked in, and I began to take good care of myself, steaming broccoli and drinking plenty of water. I aimed for quality sleep and tried to exercise. People around me began to notice a change. “How did you go from frazzled to unflappable?” they asked.

Surely they were joking. For most of my adult life, I’d focused on a high-stress writing career, all the while balancing a marriage and a family. I thought I might die young—the sooner the better—until a near-fatal accident forced me to slow down. It took years to recover. And yet, had I truly healed? What was really the matter? Was it the non-stop calamities? A pervasive unhappiness? Or bad luck?

I can’t pinpoint the moment I began to mend. When I wasn’t reading or baking, I was in the backyard, looking for my grandmother’s little bitty miracles. I always emerged with a clear head and a buoyant spirit. Troubles still pushed their way onto my desk, and unwanted responsibilities consumed my time. But I was developing an old fashioned pluckiness.

In my seventies, I became a sky-watcher, a nature-hunter, and a rain-dancer. My blood pressure improved—and so did my attitude. Whether I’m in the kitchen, stirring a tomato sauce, or in the backyard, weeding the purple catmint, I’m pretty sure that I brush up against the divine. On clear evenings, I sit on the porch and look up at the sky, searching for constellations. Beneath the great vault of the night, worries fall away and my heart fills with gratitude. Perhaps stargazing is a form of meditation or prayer. The important thing is to find what works for you. 

The goal is to find the quiet center of your life.

Now, my days are gentle. Mostly. No matter what happens, I can usually rebound with a cup of orange blossom tea and a good book. Today, I am standing on the narrow porch, trying to identify bird calls. I’m also watching clouds gather on the distant hills. At any moment, the phone could ring with unwanted news, threatening to break my peace. That’s okay. I know a cure: I am constantly falling in love with nature. It reminds me that simple pleasures aren’t simple at all. They are a form of self care. And who doesn’t need a bit of nurturing?

Here’s a not-so-easy question: What makes you happy? The kind of happiness that spreads through your soul like warm honey? Or the kind that inspires you to dance barefoot?

As you compile your list, be brave. Be honest. If you get stuck, read Mary Oliver’s iconic poem, “The Summer Day,” and think about “your one wild and precious life.”

Really think.

That’s not the hardest part. Each week, you’ll need to add a goal and chart your progress in a journal. Dive deep into your successes and failures. If a weekly activity is difficult, set your own timetable. In the beginning, maybe all you can do is make the bed each morning. You’ll get stronger. Human beings are hardwired to be plucky. Scientists call it “Resilience 2.0.” Remember, it takes at least twenty-one days to form a new habit. In the meantime, be patient with yourself. This is your moment.

I find peace when I sift flour and the particles waft in the air. I find comfort during a summer downpour or when the sun drops like a tangelo behind the hills.

In these moments, the magic hours alight on me like a butterfly. I see every detail. Feel every heartbeat. Hear the background music of my ordinary life, and each song is an anthem.

As I stand outside, katydids trill from the treetops, and within that sound, I notice a chorus of old-timey voices. Mama and my grandmother are singing about coconut layer cake. Just behind them my rosy-cheeked great aunts harmonize about potluck dinners. The women join hands, humming a lullaby of starry nights, fairy mushroom rings, and fog in the valley.

It’s the music of the earth, laced with the joyful rhythms of cooking, gardening, and puttering, the oldest magic in the world.

And I join them, singing as loud as I can.

—from Joy Lessons