When I finished my last hike, I broke into a victory dance. I whooped, pumped my fists in the air, twirled in a couple of circles, did some elbow-hip thrusts (the ones that require the top teeth to rest on the bottom lip, in perfect, politically incorrect “white man’s overbite” style), and yelled out a few iterations of “whoo hooo.” I was delighted with my tiny little accomplishment, and danced.
People noticed. Some watched; others turned away, as if they didn’t want to observe an outbreak of impropriety. One person commented, as she was walking by, “She must be happy.” Of course I was happy. I’d been happy the whole day. It was a day for happiness.
I was the only person doing the dance. Why weren’t the other hikers dancing? Many were just about to ascend an amazing swath of earth, to see vistas, to test their mettle, to spend time with friends and family and pets. Others had finished their hike, so they ought to have had just as much reason to shout for joy. Instead, they were engaged in mundane activities: drinking from lukewarm water bottles, searching for car keys, checking text messages. They might have been happy, might have even been excited for having traversed successfully up and down the slope, but you could not gauge excitement from their outward behavior. If they’d been wearing mood rings, the crystal would have turned the dull color of “whatever.” Mine would have been in the blue-violet range, happy and excited.
I’ve come to realize I do a lot of victory dances. The other day I made a new recipe. I wanted it not just to meet the special dietary requirements of our friends, but also to be tasty and look impressive. I chose a Martha Stewart recipe, for which I watched the video (yes, I know how this sounds) – twice. Of course, I made it for the first time for company, as this is what I do. No test runs, no fine-tuning of a recipe prior to the unveiling, nothing but a little adrenaline rush to see if I’ll be humiliated and order in pizza, if it’ll be passable and the whole party suffers through the politeness of eating mediocre food, or if it will be pretty darned good, maybe even delicious, for which I will savor not only the food, but my triumph over the unknown dangers of new ingredients, new recipes, complicated steps, and the self-imposed pressure of pleasing guests. This recipe came out great, just a little something I threw together, just like a little something Ina Garten might throw together for a casual yet elegant dinner party. I whooped and did a little jig, right there in full view of our guests.
I celebrate the small moments. I might clap at the end of a song on the radio or Pandora, even though I understand quite clearly no performers will hear my applause. I give high fives. I say kid-friendly refrains, including “awesome” and “cool” and “amazing,” each one with the perfect intonation that belies my decades on the planet. I get excited when books I’ve placed on hold at the public library arrive. I have looked closely at each tulip that has bloomed for the second year, each day encountering a few different ones to take in their colors, to feel surprise at their vibrant inner sanctums, to marvel at their new heights and how happy they make the front of the house seem. My soon-to-be tween told me recently that I’m goofier and sillier than any other parent he knows; this was mostly a compliment, with a nod to future embarrassment.
Life has a full roster of serious moments, troubles I have experienced, plenty more that await me and my loved ones. I am a fully competent professional and often take myself and the world quite seriously. Other times I let myself relish the uncomplicated moments of joy. I won’t let them go unnoticed. I seek them out and draw attention to them (and, apparently, sometimes to myself). I’d rather risk being seen as foolish or silly or just a little different than make the slow and steady descent into apathy. I don’t want to ignore a Spring bloom, don’t want to be blasé when something could be rejoiced. Because if I’m only going to recognize REAL victories, it’s possible I’d go a very long time without anything to celebrate. I’m not working on a Nobel peace prize. I’m not exploring the mechanisms and functions of the genes mapped by the Human Genome Project. I’m not curing cancer. I’m not writing the great American novel. I’m not involved in local politics. I have no plans to be on a PTA committee. I donate to charities, but not enough to ever get a name plaque. I am not the world’s best anything.
I have a very small life, doing very small things. But the smallness no longer fools me. It’s full and rich, filled to the rim (did your mind just take you where mine did? With Brim?) with tiny moments where things go well, where my son and I accomplish a small goal, where our family enjoys a quiet walk around the neighborhood, where my minestrone pot pie with parmesan biscuits comes out beautifully, where a friend and I share a deep belly laugh (or a painful moment made more bearable by companionship). We engage in small actions, passing along little doses of love and kindness, the willingness to repair infractions, the tolerance to feel deeply the whole spectrum of life, back and forth, up and down, swaying to and fro in an amateur pas de deux (de trois?, de quatre?) that often shifts, with no notice, into a full blown Victory Dance.