My friend was struggling with profound grief. In the midst of her hurt, she texted me a few lines from Jack Gilbert's A Brief for the Defense. If you’re in a rock-solid mental place and up for some gut-wrenching poetry, by all means - do read the poem. But if you’re feeling at all vulnerable, you might want to save it for another day and skip right to the part she shared with me:
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world.
I remember first hearing about the idea of a delight practice last year in Catherine Price’s guest essay for the Times. When we find ourselves inundated with the heaviness of news, work, and personal responsibilities, the suggestion to deliberately notice the little things that bring us joy feels subversive. Pointing to the sky and exclaiming “Delight!” when something brings a spark of happiness — whether it’s the unexpected beauty of a flower or the surprising sighting of a trumpet-playing unicyclist — is absurd in the best possible way.
What makes this practice so effective is how it encourages us to connect with simple pleasures we could easily overlook. By noticing and celebrating these moments, we essentially build a “delight radar,” shifting our focus away from the noise of daily life and onto the things that actually make us happy. This act of paying attention doesn’t just enhance our mood; it nurtures a sense of gratitude, which makes moments feel lighter and more meaningful. When everything seems to be going wrong, a little gratitude can have a huge impact on our mindset.
This isn’t about ignoring the omnipresent struggles of our fellow citizens of Earth, or of the Earth herself. Price's essay acknowledges that there will always be conflict, hardship, and frustration, but by practicing delight, we’re reminded that there are always moments of beauty and joy, too — however small or fleeting. It’s a way to intentionally reframe our perspective, shifting our gaze from what divides us or drags us down to what connects us to simple, joyful things around us.
One afternoon just a few days after the loss of her companion, I stumbled upon a sweet candid moment: There was my friend, standing on her front porch, surrounded by several little neighborhood girls, her finger pointing skyward and a broad smile on her face. I couldn't hear her, but I knew exactly what she was explaining to the next generation of the Delighted.
I have found myself adopting this practice, pointing skyward and pronouncing “Delight!” even in the most ordinary settings. Today it happened in the grocery store as another shopper rounded the corner and I saw that he had retrofitted a cat-transport backpack to accommodate his cockatiel. The bird responded enthusiastically as the man narrated his trip down the dairy aisle, and my finger shot up immediately. There’s something liberating in the gesture, and each tiny moment of delight adds up, shifting the way we experience the world.
Price pronounced last year as the “Year of Delight,” but there’s no deadline on her invitation to make a point of noticing what’s right. In a world that thrives on division, what could be more radical than taking time to acknowledge and share what delights us?
Comments