I am overjoyed when I remember that I'm alive. I am alive, just like you, in the most mysterious, boundaryless sense. And that Life, as such, never began and cannot possibly end. For if life did begin, at what point did it begin? Wouldn’t we have to locate the starting point? Was it the moment of birth? The moment of conception? The formation of stars? Of atoms? Of time itself? Of God? And if Life ends, like truly ends, then what is it that ends, and where does it go? If it did then it would not be life, it would fit the misunderstanding of Life being the opposite of death. If Life did end, it must leave to go somewhere else? No? If Life were truly the opposite of death, and this binary was a switch that flips from presence to absence, then death would somehow be the more constant state, the backdrop from which life springs forth temporarily. No? If we look carefully, we may see that death is only a story told from the perspective of form. Death is only associated with form! The assumption that death is a counterweight to life becomes clearly an assumption, a narrative hung loosely on transitions. Life, being this animating current, doesn't have an opposite. It simply is all that is.
I am overjoyed when I remember that I am Life itself. No, not the ‘me’ that carries an identity, that spots a like and dislike, that files taxes, curates playlists or gets annoyed in traffic. Not the face in the mirror, or the sum of accumulated memories. Certainly not this body, lovely and worn, born on a gentle November morning. That could not be who I am. That would be the body being born, not me. What enlivens the body? What aerates every cell, what animates each glance and gesture— that is closer to what I am. And even that language blatantly fails because…where then does this animating life come from? Is that Life not who I am? Who we are? Sadly, this is not a comforting philosophy despite my overjoy in articulating this. That’s not the point. The point is recognizing directly how I am not(and you are not) a thing that is alive. You are Aliveness itself.
I am overjoyed when I see clearly that the circumstances erupting and unfurling across the landscape of this living are nothing more than passing weather—fleeting expressions of what cannot be named. The so-called content of life, with all its laughter and tension, its schedules and surprises, is secondary. The miracle is not what happens. The miracle is that it happens at all. And it is all being seen. Pause for a second and split your noticing in two. There is the experience: the flood of thoughts, the bite of cold air, the dread before a meeting, the pleasure of silence. And then there is the Experiencer—the invisible, ever-present field to whom all these arise. Oh, go deeper, the Experiencer isn’t the one doing any of these things. The Experiencer is the one witnessing activities that may be labeled as passively or actively. The Experiencer witnesses without entanglement. The Experiencer is like a screen, experience is the movie. The screen is not affected by the movie. The movie shines on the screen. All phenomena—thoughts, sensations, emotions, actions they pass through like the flickie flickers of movies, but none stick. Not even the drama(all of my drama) or the story about what any of it means has any power to stain the Experiencer. And isn’t that… joy?
I am overjoyed knowing that while nothing whatsoever matters, this very non-mattering is what allows for real choice. I can say, “this matters to me,” and pour myself into it. Not because I must, but because I may. It becomes an act of grace. It becomes my offering. It becomes my devotion to Life. I get to say yes to a thing and then give myself to it wholeheartedly, not to prove worth, not to secure identity, but because love plays in particulars. Oh, I’m overjoyed because everything now matters. The lotioning of my ashy elbows, the soft glance at a stranger, the letting go of a petty resentment, the reply to a spam caller, the protection of my calendar, the one hour quick visit to my friend at lunch break, the reply to that Teams message about something that’s not my business. Oh, it all matters! All of it, sanctified. The sacred is in no rush, and it misses nothing.
These light and momentary trials—yes, even these, they fold into the symphony. They are notes in the great song of being, weightless in the hands of the One who sees without eyes, touches without hands, loves without condition. And so I rejoice, not in spite of the friction, but through it. This Joy is not me escaping. It is a returning. A return to the centerless center, to the place that was never lost, where nothing needs to be added, removed, or improved. Overjoyed, because I see there is no elsewhere to reach—only here, expanding, collapsing, dancing within itself. The world goes on spinning its tales, but I—what I truly am—am still. Unmoving. Unbound. Through time and space, I have always been.
I am overjoyed because the roles I play—friend, lover, sibling, partner, coach, stranger—are like characters in a dream that I no longer confuse with the dreamer. The dream plays out, but I no longer need to edit the script(all that law-of-attraction b******t, all that fake-it-till-you-make-it, all that work-hard-so-you-can-leave-your-legacy). I can laugh in the middle of sorrow, rest inside of chaos, cry without interpretation. Oh sorrow comes! Chaos? That’s my last name. Crying! Oh, I can analyze the taste of my tears for you!
I can forget, and then remember again, and the forgetting becomes part of the symphony too. There’s no failing. Only the movement of clouds.
I am overjoyed because attention itself becomes worship. Not that worship! No not that fake ass worship where one bows to a separate God in a separate place, but a living, breathing intimacy. A kind of union. When I give my full presence to the cup of tea, the unwashed dish, the wordless hug, the difficult conversation—I am worshipping. I am lighting incense on the altar of this moment. And this moment is always enough. Yes, despite the aches and pains.
And still—I am overjoyed. Even as sorrow sits beside me, uninvited but not unwelcome. She arrives like a fog that makes the morning quiet, softening the world into a hush. She brings nothing new. Only the echo of things I thought I had already wept for. Grief. Not the one that’s ounishment, but grief that is itself another cloak of presence. A different flavor of intimacy. I used to think sorrow was the thief of joy. But I see now they are siblings. Twins, even. One opens the door; the other walks through it. Joy stretches the heart wide, and sorrow fills it. Or perhaps it's the other way around. I can no longer tell. They each bow to the same altar, each carve the soul open so it can breathe more deeply. What joy teaches with laughter, sorrow teaches with silence. With the ache that has no clear name.
I am overjoyed because I no longer flinch at the arrival of pain. I watch it. I breathe with it. I let it rest its tired head in my lap. Poor darling! Sometimes it howls. Sometimes it just wants to be seen. I do not try to fix it. I do not ask it to go. And in that, it begins to shimmer, not unlike joy. The same light, refracted.
I am overjoyed because sorrow has made me more honest. It stripped away the performance. It humbled the part of me that thought it could manage the mystery. It taught me how to bow. Not in defeat, but in reverence. I bow to the unanswered questions. I bow to the tremble in my voice. I bow to the way my heart still opens, even after closing a thousand freaking times. Sorrow does not interrupt joy. It deepens it. It makes it less sugar, more soil. Joy, when it returns—and it always returns—comes with roots now. It no longer floats. It has weight. It knows the terrain. It has walked with grief and not tried to outrun her. It has sat in rooms that smelled of antiseptic and still remembered the color of sky.
I am overjoyed because sorrow did not destroy me. It refined me. It showed me that what I truly am cannot be harmed. That even when everything else burns away—the plans, the expectations, the sense of how life should feel—something remains. Quiet. Vast. Undiminished. That is what I rest in. That is what I call joy.
And so yes—bring sorrow. Bring joy. Bring boredom, confusion, awe. Let it all come. I will not push any of it away. I will live as the sky lives with its weather. Open. Spacious. Unafraid. And overjoyed.
I am overjoyed because time softens. It doesn’t erase. It softens by being re-understood. Time no longer is the tyrant marching me toward death but a shimmering veil through which eternity moves. Oh, time is only present when there is movement! Eternity moves. What I thought was “my life” was just one way of carving a story from the infinite. I don’t have to hold it all together. I don’t even have to make sense. All of this doesn’t even have to make sense. The need to be significant dissolves like mist in morning sun. And what’s left is enough. More than enough.
More than enough! That’s why I am overjoyed. This breath is proof. No, not proof of survival, but proof of presence. Of unarguable being. Of unnameable light. This breath, and this one, and this one. The body rises and falls. Sensations come and go. Thoughts stretch and scatter. And still, something remains. Something watches. Something is. And that something… is what I am.
I am overjoyed because there is no arrival. No going to heaven, no going to hell, no going to paradise, no going to anything beyond this. And strangely, that’s the relief. That’s the punchline. That’s the punch to the chest. There is no finale, no curtains to close, no applause to wait for. Just a quiet yes that echoes through every ordinary moment. Yes to the socks on the floor. Yes to the ache in my knee. Yes to my 2000 unfinished projects, the weirdo that just texted me, the crooked painting. Yes to it all.
Overjoyed, because even the question “Why am I overjoyed?” floats like a feather—held, loved, but never answered. Because the answer would be too small, unnecessary and beyond words. You know, when attention is pulled back into itself, it becomes easily seen that my joy is yours and yours mine, and that’s where we spring out of— joy!
I thought to include this recording of Rob Bell. I was glad to be a part of the audience.
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