I have taken to playing an interesting sport, though I doubt anyone watching would recognize it as such. It requires no ball, no net, and not even the faintest hint of athleticism.
What it does require is the ability to feign a sort of spellbound wonder when someone is telling me, with brimming enthusiasm, about their new obsession with antique butter churns or the intricate political hierarchy of honeybees.
My role is simple. Eyes wide, mouth slightly parted, I nod like a bobblehead at a particularly riveting sermon. I am not mocking them. Quite the opposite. I am giving them the rare and fleeting gift of attention.
It feels almost sacred to me, this tiny offering of counterfeit awe. Their voice lifts, their gestures expand, and suddenly they are no longer just a person with a niche hobby but a sort of prophet, chosen to illuminate the world with knowledge of butter churn torque ratios. I may not care about churns, or bees, or the resurgence of the Victorian calling card, but I do care about them feeling, for a moment, like their joy is contagious.
Because if joy is not shared, what is it? A secret party thrown in an empty room.
The odd part is how rarely this gift is returned. When I, in a fit of delighted madness, try to share my own little joys, the reaction is often tepid at best. Even friends, even family, people whose love for me is supposedly unconditional, seem allergic to my happiness. They smile politely, nod once or twice, and then drift away as if I had read them a grocery list in a foreign language. It stings. But more than that, it baffles me.
Why would anyone turn down free joy? It is like being offered dessert with no calories and replying, “No thank you, I’m saving room for bitterness.”
I have come to believe this stinginess with joy is not just unfortunate but tragic. If we only experience our own moments of delight, we live in narrow little terrariums, sealed off from the lush and sprawling jungle of everyone else’s lives. Imagine how much living we could do if we simply borrowed each other’s emotions now and then. When you share in someone else’s happiness, you get to inhabit their world for a while. And when you share in their grief, you do not drown. You simply learn what their ocean looks like.
So yes, I will continue to fake fascination, not because I am insincere, but because I am greedy. Greedy for more life than I could possibly gather alone. It does make me quietly sad when those closest to me do not fake it back. They do not seem to realize they are the ones missing out. They stay rooted in their own small gardens while I am out there wandering through entire continents of other people’s hearts. It is a little sad for me. But it is a lot sad for them.
Join us in making the world a better place. You’ll be glad that you did.
Cheers, friends.