“What brings you joy?”

The question made my brain functions stop. The clink of dishes and silverware, chairs rubbing the wooden floor as people settled into their seats, the hum of conversation…all immediately ceased, no longer audible to me as I sought the answer.

It was the second night of our meditation and writing retreat at Tassajara Zen Monastery. “Rona”, the monk leading our meditation practice, and I were seated at the end of one of the long wooden tables in the dining hall. I could see servers intermingling with guests as all were entering for the meal, but suddenly she and I were the only ones in the room, magnified for just this moment. I took a deep breath.

Joy?

It took me a minute to speak. “I really don’t know anymore. My husband was ill for many years and there was no joy in that. It changed him. Getting through it was all I could manage. He passed away in January and sometimes, I’m still discombobulated. Without Robert, I’m untethered, searching for the ground beneath my feet because the old ways just don’t work. I feel joy with my daughter and her family and that’s a good beginning.”

I had returned to California six weeks after Robert’s funeral, in time to participate in the monthly shamanic meditation held at the house. I was grieving his loss and completely drained by both the emotions and legalities of the situation. I welcomed the infusion of clarity, healing, and energy that these rituals provided me.

During the service, a noise jolted me from my reverie. I could see a pair of hands, Robert’s hands, holding a glowing, golden box. As he laid this at my feet, I heard his voice, “Laura, I’m returning this to you. I’m so sorry that I took it from you so many years ago…it’s your joy.” I looked closer to read the little note attached to it, ”DANCE!” is all it said.

Overwhelmed with such a profound feeling of love, I burst into tears and sobbed for quite some time. Silently…not wanting to disturb the other nineteen seekers in the darkened room, entangled in their own blankets and revelations brought to light by the melodious icaros and pounding drum.

My crying ended as I was blessed with another vision. Robert again, standing at attention—strong, straight, muscular, and healthy. He was dressed in uniform, reminiscent of the Battlestar Galactica science fiction-type novels he favored… and he had wings! An enormous, feathery pair like John Travolta’s in the movie, Michael. Go ahead, laugh…I did.

Surely a sacred sign…

Then I received the significance of this powerful image. He was standing watch over me, an angelic, commanding sentinel to care for and protect me, as he did before his illness robbed him of his joy, and therefore ours. I was aware that the forgiveness and love we had expressed for each other the last days of his life had healed any and all strife between us and would continue into eternity.

Three weeks after my Tassajara retreat, I’m on my way to another Zen Center. This one is in Sebastopol, where one of our housemates, Kelli, will be ordained as a Zen Buddhist monk. Carla, her best friend from college, flew in from San Diego that morning and together with my daughter, Danielle and her wife, Anne, we are driving up to witness the ceremony and celebrate her commitment.

Driving through Napa, the perfectly coiffed grapevines line the road on either side, vivid green against the brilliant, blue afternoon sky. The top is down on my new Mustang convertible, warm air and bright sunshine washing over us as we sing along with the radio at the top of our lungs. Danielle has discovered the “70’s Road Trip” mix on Spotify, providing the perfect soundtrack for this journey. I turn the volume way up so we can hear it above the honking horns and whistling wind.

It’s Friday, at the start of the Labor Day weekend and a drive that should take us an hour, turns out to be two, but as we laugh and warble along with the Rolling Stones, Eagles, and Elton John, it’s clear that it doesn’t matter how long it takes. We allowed extra time for the holiday traffic and except for Kelli, everything we need is right there in the car—hard-boiled eggs, avocados, bananas, water, a full tank of gas, and the love between us that we are on our way to share with her.

Hearing the distinctive guitar intro and raspy voice of Rod Stewart singing Maggie May, a goofy grin spreads over my face and I ease into my seat, acutely aware of this time we have together. It’s one of those perfect moments…a snapshot to add to the album of special times that have enriched my life.

Pure joy.

Coupled with these feelings, Rod’s serenade transports me back to another road, this one lined with tall cornfields. I’m driving an old, white, sputtering Corvair with the radio blasting the newly released Maggie May. The dj’s were playing it constantly, so we know all the words.

Sandy and I attended freshman year in Chicago and savored these road trips to stay with friends in colleges all over the state. When she couldn’t get away, I would hit the trail alone, folding and unfolding my Rand McNally map as required, to chart the path through the endless farmlands of Illinois.

Living at home and working part-time was the only way I could pay for tuition, books, and supplies. It was not easy, but that is another story. I mention it only to illustrate the motivation, relief, and anticipation I experienced each time I packed up my car for one of these weekends away. Escape from the overwhelming responsibilities of homework, housework, siblings, parents, and my job provided me with freedom and hope—a glimpse of a future that I could determine without anyone else’s directives or demands, filled with enthusiasm, love and yes, joy.

I veered off the road of radical personal discovery, as many of us do. As a willing and sometimes eager passenger, detours and highways led me to others’ more conservative expectations and destinations—also, another story, but one that has come to an end. Now I’m ready to take the wheel with all the passion and excitement of that eighteen year-old girl.

My hair is much shorter now and shot with gray, my eyes surrounded by a few more laugh lines and a visor on my head to keep the sun out of them, but I’m sure the expression in them is just the same as that first Maggie May moment in time…wide-eyed wonder at the possibilities before me.

Without Robert in the driver’s seat and me riding shotgun beside him, it is not the future we planned. I’m driving now–with a GPS and custom playlist, no particular time line, and a long list of places to go and people to see. Could be that place is only as far as the hammock swinging beneath the lofty redwoods out front, a French class in Berkeley, Iyengar yoga in the Piedmont, or exploring the countless curiosities contained in Golden Gate Park.

When I do gas up the Mustang or board a plane this time, I’ll probably be sleeping in a Hampton Inn, Four Seasons, or the perfectly appointed guest room of a dear friend or client, but while on this quest, I’m not ruling out a spot on the floor or cramped backseat altogether.

Having the security, protection, generosity, and affection of Anne, Danielle, and Robert, in both this world and the mystical one, allows my spirit of adventure to take flight. Freedom and hope—a future that I alone determine, filled with enthusiasm, love…and as that winged sentinel reminded me, plenty of dancing.

Pure joy.

“Hey, Rona, ask me that question once again.”

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