FINDING THE LIGHT (AGAIN)
As one of life’s optimists, Cyndie Spiegel wore the brightest colours to counter the darkest days. But when tragedy threatened to undo her, she was forced to redefine what happiness meant
We were having one of those Saturday mornings – blissfully quiet, mundane, even – when my mother Facetimed. As soon as her image filled the screen, I knew something was wrong. I needed to go home. As a family, we needed to be together. ‘But Mom…’ I found myself saying after she told the irreversible news that would change our lives for ever. ‘Are they sure he’s not alive?’ I mean… isn’t it possible that he might be?’ Two years on, the memory of that conversation is seared into my soul; an unfathomable moment that feels like part of someone else’s weekend morning from a million lifetimes ago. My nephew had been murdered in a senseless attack, a random act of violence. And here I was, ever the optimist, trying to find the hope, because truthfully, I didn’t know how else to be.
Four months later, my mother died unexpectedly. Another month and one of my brothers had a stroke, suffering from heart failure that caused him to languish in an intensive care unit for two months. In the midst of a global pandemic, when visitors were not allowed access, my oldest brother and I called the hospital three times a day for updates. As time passed and our brother slowly began his recovery, I thought I might catch my breath.
But no. Not quite yet. After a routine mammogram – the second I’d ever had – I was diagnosed with early-stage breast cancer. ‘It could be worse, we caught it early!’ I told myself. But in other moments, I felt angry and sideswiped. ‘Of course, this could happen to me. Why should I be immune to this trainwreck?’ As the days passed, never seeming to get any better, I had no emotional bandwidth to feel anything.
And yet, two years before, I’d written a bestselling book called A Year Of Positive Thinking, a colourful, easy-to-navigate manual sharing ideas for shifting our mindset to one of optimism. It took me only seven weeks to write, as I sauntered through life, spouting realistic ideas about ways to enjoy each day, and has since sold hundreds of thousands of copies and been translated into several languages.
For as long as I could remember, I had been profoundly positive. Kind of irreverent, but deeply earnest. I was the cute, cheerful kid; the person who wore the brightest colours to counter the darkest of days. There had even been a time when I wondered if I felt too much; if I experienced moments of joy and beauty too fully, while savouring the details of every tiny, gorgeous thing that brought me happiness. Brightly hued flowers. Neon-coloured Birkenstocks. Conversations with strangers. friends would tell me that my outward expression of enthusiasm was contagious.
But amid so much loss, I no longer had the capacity to focus on things I couldn’t actually impact. That old version of myself felt like a lifetime ago. I wasn’t her any more. Or was I?
Unsurprisingly, I now refer to that 10-month period of time as ‘The Time That I Lived Through The Hardest Things’. I no longer expect that the ones I love will live for ever, or that I am infallible simply because I look healthy. I understand impermanence in ways that have cemented themselves to me inexplicably, but the thing I’ve come
‘Over time, I have realised that there is joy when we are rooted, but also when we are deeply unmoored. That it is possible to find joy alongside grief, but also inside of everyday comforts’
to truly appreciate is how wild, imperfect and precious life is.
I knew I’d have to come back to some semblance of myself, and over time, I have realised that there is joy when we are rooted, but also when we are deeply unmoored. That it is possible to find joy alongside grief, but also inside of everyday comforts. That we can uncover happiness in turmoil but also in the depth of calm. Trauma destroys us, but it also rebuilds us. Happiness is still extraordinary, even when bittersweet.
But also that, if we want to dance, we must be willing to grieve. Experiencing hard things is not optional, so we must choose hope and joy when we are able to. We will grieve, and we will lose hope, but we can go on, one foot in front of the other, until we recognise we are deserving of joy once again. And when that moment appears, we will discover whatever beauty awaits us.
My own reemergence began when I allowed myself to discover ordinary moments that are often missed opportunities for joy. I call these microjoys – a practice of discerning joy and finding hope at any moment, accessible to anyone. The moments I might have missed amid the backdrop of a busy life. Drinking the perfect cup of coffee and feeling the ink of a Sunday newspaper on my fingertips. The whimsy of our cat’s bizarre sleeping posture. The crinkle of my husband’s eyes when he laughs. The clarity of a full and complete breath.
Microjoys require a capacity to seize every experience differently – with time, it becomes a way of living. But there are also times when we must boldly chase the moments, and fundamentally understand that joy is an active choice. Some days, my joy is picking out the perfect shade of hot pink nail varnish; other days, it’s choosing to sit at a bar alone with a beautiful glass of wine while chatting to strangers. In some cases, it’s a ritual I have created for myself: days before each New Year, I now go shopping for a spectacular and completely unnecessary dress as a gesture of faith in the year ahead (how could I possibly have a horrible year while wearing a dress that is created from a ton of gold sequins?)
For me, the wisdom of accepting life as it is while finding joy anyway has been life-giving. Rather than proclaiming loudly what we want in an effort to seek happiness, microjoys simply ask us to notice what is squarely in front of us. To acknowledge and appreciate the mundane beauty of what is present. To live in the grey and still find beauty there. To seek out the tiny joys, and always choose the impractical dress because life is too short not to.
After a lifetime of having separate lives, my brothers and I now speak almost daily. We cook family recipes using Mom’s well-worn pots and pans, and double over in laughter recalling a childhood filled with sarcasm, a medley of Jewish soul food and pottymouthed humour. We spend holidays together, reminiscing while making new memories. We enjoy storytelling and copious amounts of falling asleep on the closest sofa even while we deeply grieve.
It’s the darkest days that make you realise, ‘What if we didn’t wait for the darkest of days?’