"Joy in the present makes joy in the future seem plausible." — Jenka Gurfinkel
"The whole world is a very narrow bridge. And the most important thing is not to be afraid." — Rebbe Nachman of Breslov
The drive to Leadville unfolded quick and snowless, remarkable for its lack of traffic and the troubling absence of the white stuff we desperately need. The peaks stood tall and nearly naked while cold wind whipped dry old flakes across the road in ghostly patterns. We left the world behind as we climbed into the small mountain town perched at 10,200 feet where my friend has recently acquired a home.
We spent the weekend setting up furniture and dashing into Leadville's lovely, artistic novelty shops at close intervals to warm ourselves in the single-digit temperatures. After weeks of heartbreaking headlines, I found myself startled by art that lifted me up—including a simple print declaring "Joy is now" that I encountered on Friday and returned to on Saturday afternoon following a bracing seven-mile walk. Delighted to discover a keychain bearing the same words, I replaced my old "Number one mom" token with this new talisman, not yet understanding why these three words felt so necessary.
The understanding arrived this morning when I read Gurfinkel's observation that joy in the present makes future joy seem plausible. Of course. Joy hides, harder to locate in these difficult days, yet I've found it flickering in the radiant faces of my athletes who shattered lifetime bests, in my daughter's return from Guatemala with stories and lovely photos, in mountain walks where breath comes sharp and clean, in hours spent with friends who understand without explanation. These fleeting moments become the lights we follow through darkness.
On Sunday, Daniel and I attended a gathering to hear Phil Weiser, who's running for the Democratic nomination for Colorado governor. Weiser proved outstanding—an accomplished and thoughtful speaker who addressed the events unfolding in Minneapolis and across the country by encouraging us toward bravery rather than despair. "In my faith tradition," he said, invoking Rebbe Nachman of Breslov, "we learn that the whole world is a very narrow bridge. The bridge might be scary to cross, but we must move forward. The most dangerous time comes when we lose equilibrium because we're overcome by our own fear."
The words settled into me like medicine. Life is always a narrow bridge—sometimes we traverse it with ease because we're not looking down, not paralyzed by the distance between ourselves and the rocks below. Other times we freeze mid-crossing, stilled by our downward gaze, unable to take the next step. Overcoming that fear, raising our eyes to the horizon and the possible future waiting there, becomes necessary for any forward movement at all.
The people of Minneapolis inspire me to imagine that future—one where we care for our neighbors as fiercely as we protect our own families, where peaceful protest remains sacred and safe, where we weave bright tapestries together from threads of mutual commitment and shared vision. Joy is now, yes—in the mountain air and the athlete's triumph, in the keychain that reminds me to look up rather than down. And joy now makes the bridge crossable, makes the other side seem possible, gives us the equilibrium we need to keep moving forward despite our fear. The bridge may be narrow, but we don't have to cross it alone.
