I currently mentor a man who told me he wants more joy in his life.

Joy!

Such a slippery, effervescent quality, so hard to grasp, sometimes hard to recognize. I always seem to spot joy in the rear view mirror as I drive away. I think, “Boy, that was fun.” A few hours later, a softer voice whispers, “Actually, that was joy.” I myself would like to become more skilled at recognizing when joy is in the room, and appreciating that particular presence.

I have no illusions that I can teach someone ‘joy,’ so I am flustered by my mentee’s request. I don’t know how to manufacture it. I have witnessed it, sure. I’ve watched a shitty situation slip off its brown bathrobe and reveal naked joy quite suddenly. Joy can be sneaky. Part of that quality we love is its elusiveness, our inability to command it.

Sometimes, I feel the best I can do is tease it into the open. Maybe if I dance while nobody else dances my goofy movements seduce joy to the dance floor. I have discovered joy in first dates, baking lasagna, and once while cleaning the basement. There are other means of seduction…of course…

…I speak of…

..cookies.

I invited my mentee to my house on Saturday, Valentines Day. Let’s call him Carl.

Carl showed up trusting me because I never explained our purpose. Earlier on the phone, he said he was nervous.
“I’ve heard about you.” he said. “You have a certain reputation.”

“What?” I asked.

“The chicken suit.” he told me. “I’ve heard stories.”

“Oh, that. I wouldn’t worry about that.” I said. “Just show up.”

Carl came over with a sheepish smile, and we decorated four dozen, heart- and star-shaped gingerbread cookies. I baked them the day prior. Mostly were fat and doughy, just like my Mom makes.

Mom’s gingerbread cookies remain one of my favorite Christmas memories. My siblings and I always tease and argue over how to decorate, demanding praise from each other for sprinkling blue sugar on a frosted bell. See? See, Mom? We bitch about the Santa cookies because the cookie cutter is blobby and he never quite looks like Santa. Perhaps tired of our complaints, Mom didn’t make Santa cookies one year, so we complained how Santa had been banished. Poor Mom. I do not envy that woman.

I frosted gingerbread and Carl added sprinkles:  red crystals, purple crystals, multi-colored pink and red jimmies, those tiny little colored balls. Carl invented some new combinations:  half purple and half pinks, an array of different colored sparkling sugars on pink-frosted gingerbread.

We played while we decorated, him asking questions like, “Are we raising money to pay your rent? Are you going to use these as a distraction during a bank robbery?”

At one point, I told him my strategy:  he would sit in a wheel chair with a cardboard sign begging for donations.

“No…” he said, eyes wide. “You’re kidding right?”

“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “We’ll make you a good sign. It’s cool.”

We talked about joy, about limitations, about how doing something strange and uncomfortable can sometimes lead to joy. I think that the problem with joy is that it’s too hemmed in:  I won’t do this. I won’t, I can’t, I refuse.

I refuse sometimes. I refuse to play, refuse to ask, refuse to listen. I refuse to bend and I need to be in control. Do it my way, please. I know better. I’ve worked here longer. Joy doesn’t seem to show much at those times.

Carl and I talked about boundaries and how useful they are, as well as how they sometimes get in the way of bigger love. We chatted about our backgrounds because we’re still getting to know each other. I showed him a great quote about joy I had just received from a warrior monk friend and we finished our cookie ministrations, packing them carefully in boxes.

“When do I get to know what we’re doing?” Carl asked.

He had been more than patient, so I finally confessed that I had picked a location in town for us to show up and hand out Valentines Day cookies. Just offer them to strangers as they went about their Saturday errands. No fee, no real message or lecture, just a single question:  want a cookie?

Carl suggested we go somewhere that housed people who needed it, like old people in a retirement home. While they might be a great audience, I explained that there’s a subtle difference in giving a gift towards some charitable end versus offering it to strangers on the street. Considering people as “charity” invites condescending presumption.

Offering a cookie to a street stranger invites personal, awkward rejection. They might ignore us, scowl, cross to the other side of the street, pretend they didn’t hear us, etc. To be truly vulnerable, we need to risk that rejection.

Accompanying rejection, who knows what we might find?

Carl embraced the idea quickly, admitting that this will indeed be difficult for him. Carl is not exactly shy, but he’s also not a guy who stands in a room and says, “Can I have your attention?” Actually, I’ve seen him do that and he does it well. But he blushes furiously and stammers a little because he forgets that he’s powerful. Carl expressed willingness and even suggested we head to the nearest dollar store to decorate ourselves.

Awesome.

By the time we hit the mean streets of Minneapolis, we had decorated ourselves in red-shiny garland. You’ve seen the stuff: it wraps around anything and molds to that shape, perfect for table decorations and maybe even ribbon around a red-wrapped gift. Carl wrapped some garland around his head and down his winter-coat arms. I tore the shamrocks off some feathery St. Patrick’s Day head decoration and wrapping it in the same shiny hearts.

We looked like Cupid’s trailer-park cousins.

A woman parked nearby laughed at our invented costumes, and shook her head. Before she drove away, I grabbed her a cookie because, hey, she laughed.

We stood outside for more than two hours, offering cookies as well as those little candy hearts and chocolate-covered cherries on beautiful platters. Valentines day boasted 15 fat degrees here in Minnesota, so we regularly returned to my car to restock our platters, warm up, and swear in loud voices. Fucking cold! We walked around Lake Calhoun part way to offer sweets to intrepid walkers, men and women who braved the cold to stand in the sun.

Reactions were fascinating.

Most people were gently surprised and after a shy smile, said, “Sure.” We met a woman vacationing from Italy, new parents, and goofy, friendly people, eager to stay and chat for two minutes.

Plenty of people said, “No,” abruptly and hurried away. Some offered a cheery, “No, thanks!” Others asked “where are you from” and when they discovered we represented nobody - just two guys handing out homemade cookies - their eyes sparked a greater shine. One woman photographed us for her Facebook page.

Several cars stopped us in the parking lot, asking for a cookie. I remember one SUV, where a kid’s hand flailed desperately from the back seat, worried his front-seat parents would forget that he, too, liked cookies. Carl made sure to give him one of the biggest.

Folks asked us if our cookies were “gluten free.” (Considering we stood in a Whole Foods parking lot most of the time, we probably should have expected that question.) Others delighted to taste homemade gingerbread and complimented us on our decorating. I deferred all compliments to Carl.

Best part:  the strange innocence of that single-word question:  “Cookie?”

It’s an offer to break bread together. I invite you to tear down a very practical boundary between us. It might not be street-smart to take food from strangers, but some rules can be broken on cold-ass holidays. There’s something oddly vulnerable about offering a cookie you decorated. There is something oddly vulnerable in saying, “Yes.”

Towards the end of our adventure, one woman excitedly stayed to chat. She explained that she and a cashier had just joked how neither one had a special sweetie and the bottle of red wine she just purchased was her Valentine to herself.

“I wasn’t expecting anything.” she said. “This is the only Valentines I’ll get today!”

She was mid-30s, a beautiful woman with rich, dark skin, and this fantastic smile. Well dressed, pretty voice, smart green eyes. I found myself surprised that she’s single. Then again, I’m always surprised that I’m single too. I mean, I’m not as hot as she was, but I make a damn good lasagna and have other good qualities, I think.

She was not the only person to tell us “this cookie is my only Valentines.” Hell, I would have liked a snuggle buddy on Valentine’s Day, too. And yet, behind this sadness lingered a little bit of unexpected, gingerbread joy.

I could see it in her eyes.

I bet she could see it in mine, too.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, February 18th, 2009 at 9:39 am and is filed under Warrior. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.