I enjoy the satisfaction of cleaning up messes and solving problems. For a while I earned my living by “lending my confidence” and applying those skills to organizations in need of change or repair. On the home front, as clutter accumulates, it’s gratifying to clear off the tabletop, put away the folded laundry, vacuum up the crumbs and settle with a cup of tea to enjoy restored beauty and order. In organizations, when we’ve been able to enlist shared intention, find a root cause or contributing factor, outline an alternative and watch people feel the relief of things untangling, it feels great.

But this sense of myself as someone who can – if I choose – set things right has a flip side. I’m coming to see it as also an unwanted part in what Robin DiAngelo calls my “white fragility.” When I turn my attention to persistent, systemic ills in the world around me (poverty, racism, war, polarization, economic devastation, for example) my habit suggests that they too will yield if we (maybe I?) just put a confident, creative shoulder to the wheel and “get it right” once and for all. That they’re still here 50 years after Dr. King called us to racial and economic justice … nearly 50 since Earth Day celebrated our intention to care for the earth differently … that doesn’t fit my picture. It challenges my sense of empowerment, offends my view of progressive progress, discourages me and makes me want to turn away and bury my nose in the latest murder mystery. And then another. And then another. And in my grumpy, defensive retreat, Mother Culture protects her status quo by whispering in my ear: “It’s too big for you. It’ll all work out somehow. Just go back to sleep. Nobody put you in charge.”

Recently I’ve been working with the national Poor People’s Campaign, which is organizing across 40 states for 40 Days of Repentance and Moral Renewal beginning Mother’s Day this spring. This rich connection has reminded me of a powerful antidote to soporific discouragement: joy. As I listen to the stories of the leaders that PPC organizers call “those most affected” by injustice, cruelty and inequity, I’m struck by how joyful the gatherings are designed to be. We sing, and it’s contagious. We help each other, and are glad to be making a space where all are welcome. We play goofy games and laugh. We make and value connections. It wakes me up and pulls me out of my slump and into relationship and companionship. Is it possible that the cultivation of joy in my life could be not a distraction or an indulgence, but rather a sort of spiritual duty, a kind of arming myself for the long haul of non-violent struggle?

There are countless sources around me to mine for that joy: dancing with the kids in my Quaker Meeting (and watching their delight at an adult acting non-seriously) … walking in the woods with my infinitely curious standard poodle … people-watching on the street, softening to imagine the stories carried in all those bodies and minds, and mentally saying to each, “Blessings on you, child of God” … feeling the wind in my hair or seeing the sparkles on a river. Feeling joy isn’t an alternative to continuing to work at resisting injustice, greed, and violence; it may well be a way to stay engaged and to release me from “results” being a condition of my efforts.

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