Merideth: One benefit of playing Handel’s messiah 194,000 times is that you no longer have to count the rests. This year, as I sat in the small orchestra, which was sorta uncomfortably close to the audience members in the first pew of the narrow church, still, when the overture ended and the first recit began, I retreated into myself and stared off into space. The to-do lists and other general worrying thoughts appeared as usual. What was I forgetting? Suddenly, my eyes fell upon on one listener a few rows back. I didn’t know her personally, but something about her seemed familiar. She had a fragile fierceness that only women in their 90s carry. Her size was childlike, and her skin looked velvety. Only her head and hands were visible from above the pew; even so, I could see she was sobbing with her whole body. Not bury your head in your hands, kind of crying, but head up and eyes closed, like she was soaking the music up like sunshine. What I saw on her face was something like ecstasy, transcendence. My entire heart changed in that moment. For the rest of the concert, I played and heard every note through her tear-filled eyes.
This podcast is for the little old lady a few rows back
It’s for anyone else staring off into space this time of year
It’s for artists who carry grief and joy together
This show is for anyone interested in debunking that “tortured artist” stereotype, for those who want to believe that the creative life can bring us deep satisfaction, healing, and even joy. I’m so glad you’re here.
I’m Merideth Hite Estevez, and this is Artists for Joy, the podcast.
SHORT MUSIC BREAK
each week, I will share stories of artists seeking joy… We’ll explore how so many travelers along this artist’s way have left us breadcrumbs—wisdom and inspiration that can help us stay joyful on the journey.
Today is our annual Christmas episode. A meditation on persistent joy: an invitation to pay attention this season and give yourself permission to let the joy overflow, as it mixes with grief and gratitude, anxiety and wonder. I’ll share a story of when Joy found me in one of the most unlikely places, I’ll answer a listener question about creative block, plus I’ll give you something to consider this week. But first, here’s some more music.
There should not be hospital beds for children. Not for adults either, but there’s something categorically wrong with tiny stretchers, mini IV kits, and an oxygen mask with the face of a dragon on it. Cognitive dissonance. Does not compute. It shouldn’t be this way; these things should not exist. And yet this past week, we found ourselves in a hospital wing overflowing with sick children on highox. Is it possible to think something shouldn’t exist and yet be immensely grateful that it does?
Before I go on, I want you to know that my children are fine, thank God. We spent one very long night and two days in Michigan Children’s with my son, whose airway reacted to a mystery virus. It could have been much worse. For many families, it is. And yet, I know comparative suffering leads to guilt and shame and a lack of empathy. If you know the messed up nature of child-size medical supplies, I’m sorry, and I see you. In an attempt not to violate my son’s HIPAA rights further nor relive a very difficult moment for me as a mother, I’ll skip to the part about all the surprising joy that there was in that place that should not exist.
I was living on adrenaline in a way I have never experienced: vigilance that only crisis managers know. Somehow, I had not slept more than 30 minutes in two nights, I’d barely eaten, yet I was neither tired nor hungry. In fact, I could have lifted a car and done my taxes. I think back through the 36 hours I spent at my son’s bedside, and I wonder what I was doing all that time. I’m someone who usually has one earbud in listening to a podcast or audiobook while I cook dinner. I’m writing these essays or Instagram posts on my phone in between things when a line comes to me, but this was like some subhuman or superhuman (unsure) way of being, a blank version of me that cared only about pulse ox and breathing treatments, it was watching those monitors and prolonging MY next inhale which came only when the resident who did not look old enough to have a medical degree, appeared from around a curtain once per shift and told me he was going to be ok.
Amazingly, suns still rise when your children are tied via IV to a hospital crib. And incredibly, Eli slept peacefully there almost all night. Trust me, I stayed up watching him to be sure. But by morning, the Michigan winter sunshine (an oxymoron) poured in through the one window of our double room, and reflecting on some surface, there was a rainbow across his wall. I was tempted to open our curtain and show the mom on the other side, but something stopped me. The sun coming up was not something I was responsible for; even through my adrenaline high I knew that was good news. Rainbows were a sign of hope, of a promise that we are held and not alone. There it was in spite of everything.
And almost on cue, as my son rested peacefully, a young woman with a blue t-shirt appeared. Not a doctor or a nurse, from what I could tell. She paused until I looked into her eyes. “Today is a special day here at the hospital. It’s called Snowpile. We have gifts donated by people in the community for you to shop for Eli and any kids you have at home; plus, there are snacks, treats, live music; it’s for parents, and it’s free, and it’s your turn.” I skeptically followed this woman in the blue shirt, leaving Eli with a friend who had picked the perfect time to come to visit.
As I entered the quote-unquote snow pile, with gifts floor to ceiling for every age kid, all donated by Michigan individuals and organizations, as a personal shopper helped me pick out gifts for Eva and Eli as he handed me a handmade pillow case, socks, stuffies, and books for each of their stockings, plus a Christmas book and a puzzle for each family, as I noticed a woman with a translator picking out the same for her five children, as I waited in the cafe while a team of elves gift wrapped every single thing I’d picked, as I ate my first calorie in 24 hours, as I let the jazz from a keyboard in the corner bathe my exhausted heart, the red velvet stuck to the roof of my mouth, and joy welled up in me in a way I can barely explain.
Look, I don’t know what grief you are carrying this year. Fewer chairs around the table, fractured relationships, chronic pain, a hopeless diagnosis, unfulfilling work, or that pesky feeling that something is missing. Rejections and unanswered emails and dreams deferred another year and then another. Crippling debt and new roof leak and the sudden passing of someone you hadn’t spoken to in years. Maybe you’re thinking, “It isn’t the same without that parent/child/friend.” The adrenaline has officially worn off, and all you are left with is a shell of yourself. And it’s Christmas when every other carol tells you should feel joy.
As artists, we have the opportunity to evoke great emotion in people. When I play the oboe, I can feel it. It’s like knowingly turning a key to open a door inside the heart of someone else. It's my very favorite thing about being an artist. And yet, artists, the dreamers of dreams, and the singers of songs, we so often stay closed, jaded and busy and worried about being perfect, immovable and unfulfilled and empty. We experience a joylessness and despair and it is a special kind of lonely because as easily as we can open those of others, our own doors remain locked. It becomes harder to want to create because it feels hollow, we numb ourselves with mediocre tv and doom scrolling and substances that take the edge off, and we manage somehow to keep going..
But what I learned this week inside a snow pile of generosity inside a packed children's hospital is that joy is actually all around us, persistently knocking at the door. Even in, perhaps especially in, the hospital, the fear, the crisis, the lonely and feeling lost moments. Did these gifts solve all my problems or make Eli’s lungs clearer? No, but something about it made me feel seen, it made me remember that grief doesn’t cancel joy. It’s okay to eat a cupcake even when your child is upstairs receiving breathing treatments. It’s okay to feel joy. I have a feeling that someone needs to hear this…don’t postpone joy until they're well, don’t wait until the war’s over, don’t save the china for special occasions. Today is a special occasion; joy is actually all around. Now fear, and despair, and pain are around, too, to be sure. Maybe that’s why every single angel in the Christmas story keeps saying, first and foremost, do not be afraid; fear abounds, but what if good tidings of great joy do too, and what if instead of choosing joy this season, all we have to do is look up and notice joy choosing us.
CS Lewis said, “All Joy reminds. It is never a possession, always a desire for something longer ago or further away or still 'about to be.'” Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to hold onto; it feels fleeting because it calls to something more, something that has slipped beyond our reach and something still coming, all at once.
That’s what I saw in that 90-year-old audience member crying during Messiah. I imagine this time of year is full of pain for her too; if you are blessed to get that old, you have watched a lot of people you love leave. Maybe she wondered if this might be her last time hearing this music live. I don’t know the details of her life, but I saw my own reflection in her tears, flickering memories of Messiahs gone by; through our broken hallelujahs, we were connected across the room across decades and generations; this music burned in our hearts forever a kinship, a faith, the reminder of what eternal goodness keeps us coming back to this pew in this room in this season, longing to welcome joy in amidst all the sorrow. Hand in hand, loving the same thing. The music resonating and vibrating something so deep within us at the exact same time.
My friend David told me about a friend of his who, whenever something special happens she always says, “I’m gonna put that in my heart pocket.” It instantly reminded me of Mary in the Christmas story when she says, “and she took these things and pondered them in her heart.” This season, I’m making room in my heart pocket for all of the joy that’s there, lifting my eyes long enough to notice people in the audience, letting myself accept gifts from strangers for my children’s Christmas, sharing the rainbows when they come, believing in the signs and wonders that are here calling to something long ago and still coming. Something right now and not yet.
So, when have you felt it this season? Here’s an invitation to feel it now. Look around. Maybe you’re listening to this at a bedside or on a walk. Maybe you’re waiting for a delivery man, or you’re going through boxes of someone who isn’t ever coming back. Maybe you are sitting in your car alone, giving yourself the gift of a good cry. I’ve done that this week, too. I want you to look for something about this moment to treasure, even if it reminds you of what you’ve lost or could lose. Let the music or the poem or the twinkly lights this time of year witness to a weary world; accept the invitation to open your heart again. Ponder there what a joy it is to have loved, to grow old, delight in the precious and terrible absurdity of being human for a moment, be grateful for even one more shaky breath, and whatever grief rushes in, let it come. Look now for whatever persistent joy is choosing you, even in the pain. Open your heart pocket. Make some room.
I’ll be right back.
Today’s Listener question is from a DM I got on IG
Hello, Merideth, from my kids' penultimate day of school before Christmas. I’m already feeling bitter and resentful since all my creative time goes out the window with everyone at home. Do you have any tips for how to get in writing time when everyone is home?
Thanks in advance, Christmas Chaos
Christmas Chaos, oh yes, oh yes, when our inner artist loses our carefully sought-after alone time, creative time, it can make for one salty winter recess experience. I feel this deeply. My whole December has been slightly derailed because of all the illness and changed travel plans. And honestly, let me model what I’m telling you to do and change my mindset right here in front of you. It isn’t so much derailed, as it has shifted because of new things that have appeared that also matter. I think besides naming that we struggle when our creative context changes, it’s important to cast a new light on all the things that pull you away from the writing desk.
I actually said to my husband yesterday, I am so disappointed in myself. I didn’t get anything I needed to do before the end of the year off my to-do list. He said, “You took Eli to the doctor, you rocked him, and helped him nap. You went to pick up his medication. You answered the phone when the doctor called with the test results. You swung by the store to buy more milk. These are all things that are valuable and needed and appreciated, and yes, I am sorry you didn’t get to practice or produce podcasts as much as you needed to today, but I want you to know that I am grateful for the ways you stepped up for the kids and for me.” So Christmas Chaos, you gotta start giving yourself these pep talks. Don’t believe the lie that you are doing nothing because you aren’t moving the needle on a creative project. We can feel bitter and resentful about all the sometimes invisible labor we carry– that’s legit– and I want to encourage us not to be afraid to make that labor a little more visible to other people in our lives. Ask family or babysitters or whoever you trust to give you one hour daily during the holidays. Be honest about what you need to the people around you. Do not feel guilty about wanting to go into your office and write for one hour. It’s just as valid as childcare and cooking and wrapping people’s gifts so Christmas is magical. Everyone is stressed and short on time, but don’t suffer in silence; speak up.
So that’s a little internal coaching I think we all need to do in these moments…but here are some practical tips, one for any time of day:
Morning: Wake up before everyone else. Look, I know we aren’t all morning people, but goodness, I feel good when I set my alarm for an hour early and sneak into the living room and write. You can do anything for a short period of time; give it a try; it might do wonders for your mood.
Afternoon: Teach your people that you are human and need alone time. Now, I don’t know how old your children are, but I think regardless of their age, one thing that’s helped me is letting them bend to my need for a little downtime after lunch. Maybe you have one that naps and one that doesn’t, like me. If I’m home alone with both kids, when Eli naps, I explain to my 5-year-old that it's quiet time. I explain she can watch tv for a bit, she can play a game in her room, whatever she does, she has to let mama rest for a little bit. Sometimes, it does not work at all, but worth a try. I never regret telling my family members what I need. They have a right to say no, but every time it makes me feel seen and known, and it really helps my mood.
Night: stay up later than everyone else. Go to bed with the kids. Sit in your room and write or paint or whatever you need to do to feel like yourself. I know this can mean cutting short dinners or alone time with people, but again, be intentional about that. Who knows? Maybe your spouse or loved ones need some alone time, too. Don’t worry about asking them; be honest and try it out.
Creating in the cracks is still creating. This wild west of winter break isn’t forever. Do what you can, release your expectations, ask for what you need, and don’t forget to schedule some rest for yourself, too.
Hope that helps.
Now for today’s coda
I fell down a foreign language rabbit hole this week, looking for a word to describe the feeling I felt at the hospital in the snow pile, gratitude, and joy mingled with grief and sorrow. I knew in German they have Schadenfreude, but that actually means taking joy in someone’s misfortune. So that’s not it. There were others in Japanese and Welsh that started to get at it, but as I went deeper and deeper into the internet trying to find the perfect bow to tie on this Christmas episode, I ran into an article about tears. And I suddenly realized it, maybe there is no word for holding joy alongside sorrow and grief because we have something better. We humans have a unique physiological response to this emotional intensity: tears of emotion.
Unlike basil tears (which lubricate your eyes when you blink) or reactive tears (which flush irritants), Emotional tears are much more complex. Scientists do not completely understand this physical response to deep emotion. But as far as they can tell, no other animals cry with emotional tears. And you’ve felt it; you don’t say to your brain, ok, I feel sad now, so cue the sadness tears. Or I feel overwhelmed with joy: joy, tears NOW. No, the tears that come from deep within are a complex cocktail of all those feelings at once.
It is an impulse and wisdom of your body to hold all the complex emotions together, and wow is that is beautiful to me. And get this: that salty water coming from your eyes when you feel deeply also contains stress hormones, electrolytes, and protein—endorphins (natural pain killers) and other molecules that signal a release response in your body. Emotional tears contain more lipids, which means they are slower to roll down your cheek and slower to evaporate than basil or reactive ones. Some scientists think this has a social function, emotional tears hang around so that people in our lives have more time to notice them.
There is no one word in English for holding joy and sorrow together, but our body has a biological and psychological response that speaks for us. When we allow them to be, our inner experience and our physical bodies are connected. Will you allow them to be? If and when you feel them behind your eyes, let the tears come this season. Let them be noticed by someone you love. May they speak when you have no words. May they remind you to make room for the persistent joy that continues to choose us, never asking us to deny the grief or pain or sorrow of now, as it gently whispers, do not fear.
That’s it for this week’s episode of artist’s for joy. It was written and produced by me, Merideth Hite Estevez. Artists for Joy LLC is a woman-led small business where we craft workshops, talks, podcasts, and performances that help people harness the power of creative expression to make their lives better. This podcast is free for your listening pleasure, and if you’d like to support the work of artists for joy, click the link in the show notes to buy me a coffee.
Today's music featured the seasonal goodness of Ardie Son from his album December. I’ve linked to that album in the show notes if you’d like to hear it. Our theme song is by Angela Sheik.
Next week I will be back with what was last year's most popular episode, a musical meditation for picking your work of the year. Make sure you subscribe and follow wherever you listen.
Our next cohort for The Artist’s Way begins in February so if you’ve been listening to this show for a while and wanting to find creative community with us, go to artistsforjoy.org/theartistway or click the link in the show notes to learn more and join almost 2000 other artists who are forming a sacred circle of community in the new year. Plus, it’s FREE.
Until next week, take good care.
Today's sounds of joy is that opening of Handel’s Messiah that, to me, signifies Christmas: I mentioned a few podcasts ago, “Comfort Ye, My People.” Enjoy!