In his memoir Surprised by Joy, C S Lewis distinguishes joy from pleasure and from happiness, a distinction we intuitively understand. But what he calls joy is more like a pang. And it is fleeting.

To explain, he describes standing by a flowering currant bush in summer when a memory arises from deep, deep inside, a childhood moment he shared with his brother. The memory came with desire for what had been. And then it was gone, leaving a desire to experience that feeling again. Joy for Lewis is a moment of longing, of desire.

As I read what Lewis described, it seems to me it was also a moment of awakening, of awareness. With the awareness came the desire to be connected to what he remembered.

If we think of joy as a deep contentment or an exuberant excited happiness, we may feel it is beyond our reach this year. We may be coping. We aren't singing. We are not gathering with family for a big turkey dinner and hours of conversation and catching up.

We certainly will have moments of longing, the pang of desire for what is not. But that is not quite what Lewis describes. His sense of joy is more a connection to what was or what will be.

As I ponder his thoughts about joy, I think about gardening and growth.

Imagine a towering oak tree. Now think of the acorn that it was, falling from the tree, buried in the ground, changing from hard seed into living material, sending down a root, reaching up with its first leaves. We can picture it growing, changing, getting stronger and taller to become a majestic tree.

Seeds have to be planted before they can change and grow. The seed in our hand is potential. The seed in the ground is transformed.

Right now, the world looks dead. Deciduous trees look barren and empty. Conifers are green, but we know that they are resting. Still, things are happening. Many plants that grow wild in our land have seeds that require a freeze thaw cycle. Bring their seeds indoors, keep them warm, and they will never sprout. They need to experience winter before they can grow.

Some bulbs need to be planted in the fall. Plant them in spring and not only will they not do much, the plant may be lost if it doesn't complete its cycle. Some bulbs and roots need to be planted in spring. They will establish themselves in the spot they are placed, grow leaves and roots, perhaps a bit of flower. If they get a good summer of moisture and sunshine, a little nourishment, the next year they will flourish.

In fall, there is a kind of joy with each tulip and daffodil bulb we plant. We sense the gift they will bring in spring. We don't live the gift yet, but we each one we put in the ground, we sense what it will be, we picture the colour to come.

In fall, putting winter wheat seed in the ground, there is some risk, but there is also hope. Growth will start in the fall. Snow will cover the young plants. The next summer, harvest. Running a seed drill in late fall connects us to the earth and the cycles of life. There is joy in the moment.

The time we are living in is a waiting time. We could spend the next few months doing nothing but waiting for our turn to get the vaccine. But the waiting time is connected to what was and what will be.

It is a time like winter when life is pressing to become. Sometimes we catch a glimpse of what is taking shape, feel a sense of connection to what we long for, a connection that can be called joy.

We are not singing together our favorite carols over and over. We are not gathering with work colleagues to relax and celebrate. Family is not coming home. But we can still sense the music of the universe, the song of life, the energy of God at work in us and around us. We can awaken to our connection to what was and what will be.

Cathy Hird lives on the traditional territory of the Saugeen Ojibway

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