Probably any piece of writing that begins with “I had a dream last night…” should best be left in the dreamer’s journal. But the dream I had a few nights ago stayed with me and, in writing about it in my journal the next morning, reawakened something I’ve been missing in my daily life.

In the dream, we were wandering around a small town like Asheville or Idyllwild or another artsy community made up of sweet boutiques, cool cafes, and at least one small, well-stocked bookstore, and I noticed no one was wearing a mask. Suddenly guilt-stricken, I covered my nose and mouth with one hand, ducked my head and exclaimed, “Oh, I’m so sorry, so sorry. I forgot my mask.”

“Never mind” a fellow said. “We don’t need masks here. There’s no disease. We’re all safe.”

An immediate and unexpected feeling of pure joy surged through me. I felt a lightness, an uplifting, an openness in my whole body. No mask! No disease! We’re all safe!

I awoke from the dream still feeling that sense of joy. A sense of joy that is different than happiness, which is a state of being. This joy was a upwelling of gladness, delight, an elation that left me fairly giddy. And again, when I wrote about the dream in my journal, that same upwelling, that same delight, and I couldn’t help but grin broadly, sigh, and shake my head.

How long, I wondered, since I have felt that kind of joy? That pure and simple gladness of heart? That lightness of being? And how do I bring it into my daily life in these days of solitude and home-boundedness when the news weighs heavy and the reality of the pandemic and our separateness have created great upheaval and vastly uncertain future?

If I could be guaranteed I could have that same dream again, I would fall to my bed immediately. But I know that’s not possible. So I ask myself—I ask you, how do we bring that unbridled joy into even a few moments of our every day?

My friend Barbara came for a socially-distanced visit the other day. We took our beach chairs and, wearing our masks, walked across the street to the park where we planted ourselves in the shade of a great eucalyptus tree, six-plus feet apart. A while into our conversation, a woman came along with a dog, a beautiful white Pyrenees. Or rather, the dog came along, his person, stumbling behind, pulled by the leash she held.

“He’s a puppy,” the woman said. “Pyrenees and Lab mix. “Luna.”

Barbara opened her arms and Luna nestled right in for a long, generous puppy hug. I got a little hug, too, but clearly Luna preferred Barbara. I know why; I’ve been hugged by Barbara before, many times, though not recently; she does the best hugs.

That was joy. That moment in the park, with my good friend, an exuberant xx-pound, nine-month-old, beautiful dog and a friendly, good-humored neighbor who then, pulled along by Luna, trotted off down the hill.

Another moment of joy: the reason Barbara came over that day was to bring me a generous harvest of figs from her fig tree. After we parted on the street and Barbara went home, I carried the figs upstairs to my apartment, and hardly putting away my mask and sunglasses, dived teeth and lips and tongue into one of those just-picked, perfectly ripe, amazingly sweet gifts from the gods. A noisy and ummmmm-filled joyous sound came from my mouth, while eyes closed, I ate the whole thing and barely resisted eating another.

Today I am savoring my figs, friends. One eyes-closed, fig-filled moment of joy at a time.

How do you bring joy into your daily life?