Sweet Disposition

My father named me Joy. I used to think it was a job.

I thought I had to earn the blessing, that I was meant to bring joy to others. So I hardened under the pressure.

I learned to perform a kind of strength, because shame, fear, and guilt felt like the opposite of Joy. And in a way, they are. But they are also evidence of something else… conscience, awareness, the capacity to feel.

So I reorganized myself around other people. Softening what might hurt them. Mirroring what would keep them comfortable.

I thought I was protecting them. I was protecting myself from feeling my own feelings.

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I used to not like this picture of you because you looked stoic, almost unhappy.

I don’t see that now.

I see a quiet strength… someone standing firmly in his principles, living the best he could with what he knew, doing what he believed was right by others… carrying more than he ever said.

I don’t know exactly how to explain it, but you were safety.

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I was angry with you toward the end, when we didn’t know you were sick.

You didn’t feel like yourself. You were agitated, impatient. Something in you had shifted, and I didn’t understand it.

I remember calling home my first year of college and you answering the phone that way… sharp, distant.

I didn’t know what to say anymore.

So instead of trying, I just asked for Mom.

I hate that memory now.

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I’m serving jury duty this week, and there’s something about it that feels like you.

Maybe it’s the noble philosophical quotes carved into the buildings, or the quiet dignity of ordinary people showing up to do their duty.

Today, a man chuckled at my awkward gesturing while we were being herded around like cattle. He made a small comment about the weather and walked with me to the next building.

Not in an uncomfortable way… just familiar.

Maybe it was his stature, or his kind eyes… or even his nose hairs.

Something about him reminded me of you.

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Most people try to get out of jury duty, but I’ve found myself appreciating it.

There’s something reassuring about the idea that you’re innocent until proven guilty. That people will come together and carry responsibility, even when it’s inconvenient.

A system that tries… even imperfectly… to be fair. To read nuance. To stand up for humanity.

There’s a quiet safety in that.

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Lately, I’ve been realizing how often we move in cycles of replacement.

Trying to fill something. To act, build, move forward.

Part of us pushes to do something… but another part doesn’t replace so easily.

It mourns first.

Slower. More honest.

And I think that’s where we’ve gotten lost.

So much of our grief stays buried under what we put in its place.

Patterns of distraction that keep us from seeing clearly.

I know that because of you.

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We lost you years ago, but I’ve only recently begun to understand how to grieve.

When Pepe died last year, I saw death up close again.

It was ugly… but also beautiful.

Something released in me then.

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I also remember the dreams… near the end.

Whether it was you or my own mind, I don’t know.

I’d wake up sobbing.

I was wandering the streets of the Old Market, and I came upon a man sitting beneath a tent.

I began rifling through what was there… and he turned to me, held up a picture of you, and asked, “Is this what you’re looking for?”

And it was you… showing me you.

Later, as the Old Market was being destroyed, I sang.

And I was overcome by the sound of my own voice.

There’s something about music… about the voice…

it carries truth where reason can’t quite go.

It lands somewhere deeper. It hits a note… and sometimes it resolves in a way you didn’t expect.

And sometimes… it doesn’t resolve at all.

None of it made sense then…

but it makes all the sense in the world now.

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I remember the hospital room… people crying, saying goodbye.

And I was just… frozen, silent.

I stayed that way for a long time.

Losing your dad on your wedding day does something to a person.

When too many things collapse at once… love, safety, identity… all folding in on themselves… you don’t just get up from that.

You’re not supposed to.

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I don’t think I understood how angry I was with you.

It didn’t even feel like anger.

More like a cavern had opened between us where trust used to be.

I didn’t think I was allowed to feel angry. I was the disobedient daughter… or the whole thing was my fault.

So I didn’t experience it as anger. I experienced it as shame.

You didn’t feel safe anymore.

But now I can see… the essence of you never changed.

And anger was the part of me that loved me the most.

You were being moved by something you couldn’t control.

And I didn’t know how to stay with myself inside that.

So I split… and performed steadiness instead.

I see the bittersweet distance now.

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There are other things I remember.

Driving through a whiteout blizzard… you trusted me to take the wheel, even though you used to tell Mom I had a lead foot.

I never understood why.

Was it trust? Or something else?

Did you sense something shifting… that winter was coming?

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And your military school reunion.

When that boy asked me to go to the dance with him.

I said no.

Later, I thought you’d be proud.

But you said I should have said yes.

I didn’t understand that then.

Now I do.

You believed in the potential goodness of people. You believed it was safe because you were safe.

And that belief shaped me.

Maybe it made me a little too trusting in a world that isn’t always that way.

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So now I understand.

There is no replacement for what was lost.

I couldn’t see how beautiful it was until it was gone.

There’s wisdom in that.

I think we all experience it… losing our sense of anchoring, our sense of safety.

Maybe that’s part of being human.

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There is a part of us that cannot be bypassed.

The part that mourns. The part that grieves.

If we ignore her, she doesn’t disappear.

She waits.

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And then she returns.

The prodigal daughter… the part that believed her feelings were unacceptable.

She comes back when she understands what she carries.

Not loud or triumphant… but gentle.

A sweetness of spirit. A quiet, steady presence.

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I also remember how you would blast your drum corps CDs.

It sounded like noise to me then. I’d laugh at it.

But I understand it now.

I think it took you somewhere… into your body, into memory.

Something synchronized and alive. Loud, rhythmic… undeniable.

I listen to music like that now.

Present. Letting it move through me.

Joy is not something I perform.

It is something I allow.

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And I see now…

there is no real joy without grief.

And my father named me Joy.