Joy Lessons is all about cultivating stillness in a chaotic world.

My introduction to simple pleasures began nearly seventy years ago in my grandmother’s Mississippi garden. It was 1958. I was six-years-old, a scruffy girl with an abiding love for sugar. I barely noticed as the November sun skated over our heads. I stumbled behind her, watching her snip late-autumn zinnias, thinking about caramel cake and pumpkin fudge.

Her apron rustled as she turned, smiling down at me. “You feel it, too?” she asked.

A lump formed in my throat, hard and solid as a gum-ball candy. Had she noticed a slight earthquake? Or maybe she’d heard swarming hornets? I was a highly anxious girl, deeply attuned to calamities, but as I looked up at my grandmother’s radiant face, I relaxed. Here, in her sweet-smelling garden, with whirly-gigs and flower beds that possessed whimsical names, I felt safe.

We spent the next few days digging in the garden. When we weren’t scrubbing the concrete birdbath, we made a mess in the kitchen, whipping up cornbread, chess pies, and roasted chicken. After I settled into the daily routine. she sent me into the backyard with an assignment: find an itty bitty miracle. My idea of a miracle included loaves and fishes. A plague of frogs and burning bushes.

I cast a doubtful glance at the brush pile next to the fence. Mimi always said fairies lived there, but I’d only seen possums.

“It’s really simple “ she called from the porch. “Look for a raindrop on a leaf—so tiny yet packed with light and color. That little drop reflects everything around it, a miniature world. It could be a spiderweb or a robin fluttering in the birdbath. You’ll get the hang of it. The key is to learn how to be happily surprised by everyday things.”

I sighed. With my pessimistic outlook, her suggestions didn’t seem possible. But as the days sped by, I quickly realized that her philosophy was simple: beauty and wonder are everywhere if we take the time to notice.

In the beginning. I looked for exotic objects, like fairy toadstools, but as my powers of observation improved, I was thrilled to hunker I near the bird feeders and watch a male cardinal offer a sunflower seed to his mate.

Each day, I acquired a layer of peace. Mimi taught me about songbirds and doodlebugs, but she was really teaching me how to build a foundation of joy.

Mimi was the grace of my childhood. She’d created a soft place for a young girl to gather strength, a quiet alternative to my loud, excitable life in New Orleans.

Decades later, during a personal upheaval, I borrowed from my grandmother’s philosophy. Armed with a wicker basket and my phone, I sent myself on excursions in my Tennessee backyard, identifying trees, gathering pine cones, and picking lacy, elegant weeds. The daily assignments were a crash course in Mimi’s old lessons, a kind on-the-job training—except this was my life. And I was getting older. Now that I was in my seventies, I didn’t have unlimited time to unravel my knotty existence.

I made a list of ordinary activities, things 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 become translucent in a simmering pot of gumbo. Whisking flour and butter together will create a roux—the foundation for béchamel sauce. Bread dough can be shaped into knots, loaves, or even carved into edible art. Don’t get me started about the versatility of tomatoes.

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 chickadees 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. I also understood that Mimi had empowered me—if I had the good sense to remember her assignments: she had introduced me to the life changing practice of gratitude.

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. But had I truly healed? What was really the issue? The non-stop calamities? A pervasive unhappiness? Or bad luck?
I couldn’t pinpoint the moment I began to mend. When I wasn’t reading or baking, I stood in the backyard, looking for 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 layers of peace.

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

In my seventies, I became a sky-watcher, nature-hunter, and rain-dancer. My blood pressure improved, and so did my attitude. Mimi’s old lessons were based on her innate goodness, optimism, faith, and a deep appreciation for ordinary miracles. Decades later, the concept of gratitude is more than a hashtag on Instagram: the practice is firmly grounded in research.

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, I tiptoe around the divine. Perhaps stargazing is a form of meditation or prayer. Or maybe it evokes a holy moment. The important thing is to find what works for you. 

Now, my days are gentle. Mostly. No matter what happens, I 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, or some crisis might break my peace. That’s okay. I know a cure: Thanks to Mimi’s early guidance, 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 inspires you to dance barefoot? As you compile your list, be brave. Be honest. If you get stuck, read Mary Oliver’s beloved poem, “The Summer Day,” and think about “your one wild and precious life.”

Really think.

Now for the hard 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 18 to 254 days to develop a new habit, with 66 days the average. 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 and feel every heartbeat. I hear the background music of my everyday 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.