Does it Bring You Joy?

What are the things you save? Over years, decades?  A current trend, Kon Mari, amasses believers who wish to “declutter”. The simple directive that will resolve your organizational chaos may be contained in the answer to the zen question you must say out loud as you hold each “thing” in your hand and ask...
“Does it bring me joy?”

“If you answer yes, you keep the item. If you hesitate or say no, you donate it or throw it out. It’s simple, it’s brilliant, and it’s something that's completely intuitive. You can spend a lot of time justifying how something might at some point be useful to you and therefore decide to keep it, but whether something brings you joy is an emotional question and one that can be answered almost instantly: If you feel joy or if you don’t feel joy: there's no need to make it more complicated than that.” Nataly Kogan, Living Happier blog

But...wait!  Is it that simple?

So what if I’ve saved that grass skirt, shoved in a plastic bag, nestled next to the 1980’s metallic silver rayon dickie (did I really ever wear that), at the bottom of the plastic bin, I think as I begin my journey into Kon Mari?

Does it bring me joy? Kind of, it does. And those darn doilies (someone spent so much time making them, how can I put them in the bag to Good Will?) or even that slinky, silky peach colored 1930’s negligee with matching tap pants, trimmed with fine lace and so slinky the seams would surely burst in abject disbelief were I to attempt to put one arm or leg in it. 

But that grass skirt, that green papery, rustle-y skirt, brought me joy that night of the “Once in Blue Moon Luau” event.  I’d conceived and planned and thrown myself and everyone around me into a tizzy  about the fundraiser for month and weeks and the days leading up to it. I close my eyes and still see the four Hula dancers who arrived in a green Subaru from Newburgh. Who ducked into the bathrooms to change clothes, coming out with skimpy tops and bare midriffs and flowered headbands and tropical flowered sarongs, with grass skirts over them.  I see the Polynesian food spread out and fragrant on the long tables under the tent. Remember how I’d had to talk David from the Little Bear into making the food for the event.  “We are Chinese, I don’t know Polynesian, don’t do Polynesian.”  He’d seemed insulted by my request. “But your food is all so good!  What about just the spare ribs, then some rice – just make the fried rice, and some other dish.  Can’t you just go heavy on the sweet ‘n sour sauce and call it Polynesian?  Please?”  I was secretly smitten with David, his handsome smooth features and sexy smile, his warm handshake.  He was always crisp in a pale blue or yellow oxford button down shirt, lean in his slacks,  a slight clean citrus scent as he greeted his customers with a smile and a “right this way please”.  We’d seen him countless Friday nights with our appetites craving the succulent shrimp dishes, the spicy sauces, the perfect, crisp vegetables that were unfailingly scrumptious every single time. David, who greeted and seated and said good bye when we left, was in contrast to our favorite waiter, who I called Humphrey Bogart, due to his pencil thin size and ever present slight scowl and brief nods.  David had given in to my begging about the catering job, with a hint of a small smile in his eyes. “Okay, okay,  I’ll do it, but only for you; don’t tell anybody, ruin my reputation.  Phht – Polynesian.” Our group, who’d worked so hard to pull off the event had eaten fried rice and spareribs for endless days afterwards, there was so much left over. 

That simple, dark green papery skirt that I’d worn over my Van Gogh Starry Night rayon slinky dress,  recalled the Tiki huts we constructed, the large plywood board with two cut-outs atop the sailor and the hula girl images Richard and I had painted for guests to have their photos taken. We had a Tiki bar, with a blue drink concoction that Julia invented, a Tattoo hut (removable of course), colorful leis for ecery guest, and the Beach Boys music blaring before and after the Hula girls Dance segment and leading us in a hula line dance. 

A hazy memory of me creeps forward, me swinging like a monkey around the poles of the tent at the end of the night when our cleanup crew was wrung out and sprawled in the folding chairs. That following Monday at the office, when young Hallsworth told me that he kept playing back in his mind how damn tired he was  at the end of that night and how had I gained more energy at the end of the evening, frenziedly dancing to the Beach boys “Surfin Safari” and “Surfin’ USA?”

Was it a success? Hell, no.  Turned out that the Blue Moon brought a heavy downpour a half hour before the event, then became a steady, soft rain that made the colored lights glow like traffic lights on a rainy avenue, but also made it a bit spongy underfoot.  By the time it turned to a gentle Irish mist, it was probably too late for guests to step out for the night. The hordes did not break down the freshly bushwhacked trail to that enchanting space by the Tannery Brook. The lights glowed, the people dribbled in, and all who came said it was breathtaking, exquisite, amazing what we’d created with the space. One of our board members said “I wish more people could see this.”  Yeah, me too.  But we lost money and the grass skirt got stashed away.

And David, that dear, sweet man, collapsed in the office of his daughter’s elementary school one afternoon the following year and was pronounced dead.  He was forty seven. Does that grass skirt bring me joy?  Oh yes.