Member-only story
An Ode to Joy
What happens when we edit our joyful impulses?
Non-members can read this for free here.
My Mum wore JOY perfume by Patou. Pricey, so it was a go-to for gifting if one had the means. One generally did not, so it was a rare thing, sometimes given in sibling collaboration or times of greater abundance as various careers blossomed. It was always received with gratitude. I always noticed.
Mum once told me why she loved the scent so much.
“I was named Norma for your grandmother and Joyce because she would not let your grandfather name me Joy.” I would never have equated Mum with joy until I heard that and looked deeper. She was always so strict and adamant about doing things “the right way,” except when she wasn’t.
Fifth, in a family of six children, she learned both the art of the tantrum and that of loving the little things. Her tantrums were not a fun experience. Her love of little things, like new buds in the garden and adorning / anointing the house for Christmas, was exquisite. She loved beauty and taught me that it was okay to love it, too, though that love expressed itself in different ways. My grandmothers, both of them, tended to the functional, the practical. Growing up, I wore a lot of hand-me-downs from one of my female cousins. Practical, with no sense of how ‘fashion’ changes…
