I’m a binge-watcher. I really only want to watch a show that has as many seasons already out as possible so I can indulge in multiple episodes without having to think about what to turn on. Easy, simple and void of decision-making (except when the show runs out). Starting a new show is quite precarious. I wish they came with a set of hashtags to tell me what topics will be covered so I know which shows to avoid. #cancer, #loss, #death all feel a little too close to #mylife for comfort and I wish I could avoid them entirely.

The show I was just moderately hooked on, for example (again, it seemed easier to just watch an “okay” show than to spend time hunting for a “great” one) decided to have one of the main characters die of a recurring cancer in the last season. The plot and dialogue got to be so intense and #familiar that I had to quit watching halfway into the series finale. I just could not do it.

And perhaps I should have known, when I turned to a new show, that if it had the title of “Tiny Beautiful Things” (not all that dissimilar to “Blessed Little Things” if you see where I’m going) that I should have known to avoid it like the proverbial plague. And I will admit, first off, (before some of my family goes looking for the show,) that it is raunchy and modern and rough in ways I don’t entirely enjoy, but the writing – oh my dear goodness, the writing just hooked me. I have opened up my notes app and captured portions of the show in just the first few episodes, but more importantly, I have noted the author (the show is based on a book) and will be looking for it at the very next bookstore I come across. The show, using a self-help columnist’s poignant words, guides people in all the ways they find themselves to be lost. Which, feels a lot like #me.

You see, I am lost. I mean, lost. I could list all the reasons why, but if you’ve been here for more than half a minute you already get most of them. But what I have come to realize is that nearly every one of us feels lost. Right now. At all stages of life. Whether you are retired and aging and trying to grasp what is to be the legacy of your life or you are young and starting out and trying to make sense of the dreams you have and all the ways life is pulling you or maybe you are in between, staring down the barrel of a life you feel you lost control of or never had control of and now your map seems muddied and the course unclear.

In an effort to find ourselves, our purpose or our direction, some of us will turn to a higher power to give meaning to our path. Some will maintain that this life is all we get and will try to glean purpose and meaning through other methods. Some will avoid finding their purpose for fear of disappointing themselves or others. And others may never realize the tremendous purpose they served for this world until long after they are gone. Years ago, a pastor advised me that if a choice brought me closer to God, it was the right choice, the right direction. I can’t say that my faith is in that same place as it was then, but I have come to believe that if a choice brings joy, then it should be pursued. I don’t mean momentary pleasure, or indulgence, or quick gratification of some sort, but I mean deep and abiding joy – that should be the compass.

This life, whether it’s all that we have or just a small fraction of a master plan, cannot be entirely about struggle and loss. We need those things to truly understand and appreciate joy, but they cannot be what this life is about. At least I cannot being to find purpose or meaning or even the point of tomorrow if it isn’t rooted in something positive. Hope, afterall, can only exist in optimism.

So while I continue to struggle – to grieve, to feel personally and professionally, emotionally and socially, physically and mentally lost – I am setting my sights on finding joy. Beyond just finding it – savoring it, embracing it, feeling grateful for it and sharing it.

Last night I sat on the porch and spooned some of my husband’s ashes into a container. It is, I think, the most surreal thing I have ever done. With his empty porch chair beside me and tears flooding my face, the dog at my feet, the cat in the yard and our dreams out in front of me, the depth of my sorrow seems to know no bounds. Slowly, with measured breath and a deceptive calmness, I gathered fragments of the man I loved to take with me when I leave on vacation. I cannot go on our bucket-list vacation without him, and if he can’t go see the redwoods with me then I’d at least like to leave some part of him to live amongst them forever. Later, when I had gathered myself back together, brought the dog and cat in for the night, locked up the house and turned down the sheets, I opened the bedroom window, glad for the cool change in temperature. As I lay there, thinking about the days ahead, the dog lifted her head and the cat jumped in the windowsill. Silently, I held my breath and listened for the sound they heard first. It was far off, but it was clear – the owl. And there, with everything I had in me, I grasped onto that joy and I held on tight, feeling that if even for just this moment, I might be on the right path.