Finding the Quiet Center of Your Life

A Small Introduction to Joy Lessons

A decade ago, I developed a deep love for a new kind of storytelling. Armed with a camera and a blog, I attempted to blend creative writing and evocative imagery. I thought it might be easy, considering my background in publishing and photography, but the results were calamitous. I had the good fortune to meet a group of women who had mastered photography, cooking, and word-weaving. As a member of The Darling Bakers and The Novel Bakers, I finally learned about f-stops, crème brûlée, and RAW settings.

The years sped by. I cooked, learned how to set a table, and revisited the color wheel. Some of my happiest moments started with a basket of apples and ended up with McIntosh-flavored crab cakes. Then my life took an unexpected twist (more later), and I was unable to set up a photoshoot or write a succinct Instagram post. I only knew one thing: if I was going to survive, I needed to cultivate stillness in an often crazy world.

Through trial and error (lots of error), I learned how to find hushed moments in everyday activities. Sifting flour on a rainy morning. Digging holes for a hundred daffodil bulbs in October. Waiting for cardinals to visit the feeders on a snowy day. I realized that happiness is fleeting but a foundation of joy keeps you afloat during the inevitable dark moments. People around me began to notice a change. “How did you go from stressed to serene?” they asked.

It wasn’t always like this. For most of my adult life, I was focused on a high-powered 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? Oh, what was the matter? Was it the non-stop calamities? A pervasive unhappiness?

In my seventies, I became a sky-watcher, a mushroom-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 brush up against the divine. Some 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.

On chilly autumn mornings, I trudge through the woods, looking for wild mushrooms and dropping peanuts for the squirrels. Then I hurry home with a light heart, my basket loaded with pine cones and pretty weeds, eager to create a joy lesson.

Won’t you join me?