When I visited Karen’s blog A Novel Place the other day she was talking about the sounds of joy and the idea of freedom we recognise as children and it made me think of our tendency as children to believe in the power of joy and freedom as forces for change, as a raison d’etre. Karen posed the question about being young enough to still believe in both and I wondered if feeling the potency of the idea of joy and freedom is a state of mind only attributable to the young because as an adult so many other things get in the way.
We all still feel moments of joy as adults, right? There are often too many to count or remember. We see them then forget them hundreds of times in one day, but what we often don’t realise is that we are accruing those moments of joy and that they give our lives purpose and meaning, keeping us going.
The lights on the bridge at night give me joy. I can sit and watch as if I am in an art gallery, looking at the work of artists who reveal brilliance in their paintings, who understand the transformative power of light. Our ability to capture light, not just through the medium of art but through our own modes of seeing, is often elusive. Sometimes we don’t notice instances of light in our lives because there is so much else going on, a glut of distractions blocking the light, blocking the joy.
When I was a child I experienced many moments of joy. I remember my Mum making lemon curd in the kitchen in an enormous pot that was too heavy for me to lift. The smell of butter, eggs, sugar and lemon juice filled the house. It was fascinating to see the ingredients turn into a silky smooth custard that transformed the sourness of the lemon juice into something delectable. My Mum used to make little muslin toppers to put over the lids of the jam jars she put the lemon curd in and hand them out to people she knew at our school or in our street. They were much coveted and those who received them held them in two hands, carefully as they would a trophy, taking small, attentive steps home.
My sisters and I also coveted the lemon curd. It had to be refrigerated, so it was kept on the top shelf of the fridge, shining there like the Holy Grail. We found an old milk crate down in the basement and used it to reach the citrusy delight, eating so many spoonfuls of it at night after everyone had gone to bed that remnants of tartness stuck in our throats till morning. I’m sure our Mum knew of our secret indulgence, but she never said anything.
Around the time the lemons began to grow I used to see little white butterflies flitting around the garden, their wings the same colour as the muslin jar toppers. I thought of the colour when I was a child as an old-fashioned white because it had a vintage creaminess to it that you saw sometimes in photos of wedding dresses from the turn of the century. The simultaneity of the colour of the butterfly wings and the muslin jar toppers brought me joy as a child. When I think of lemons or white butterflies now I still feel joy.
I didn’t know what freedom really meant as a child. I referenced it as pertaining to days off school, holidays at the beach, eating take-aways in front of the television or reading in bed until noon on weekends. I did not question whether or not I was free because I had no impositions placed upon my freedom that were concrete enough to be problematic. Even curfews weren’t seen as being particularly restrictive.
As adults I think we’re much more aware of what freedom means. Having a job, an education, a career leads to an economic freedom of sorts – we can pay our bills, buy things, make progress. But I think we very quickly learn that the way we define freedom is very closely linked to purpose and significance.. Freedom isn’t just about the ability to do what you want whenever you want, it’s more about self-determination and autonomy. Feeling like you are in control of your own life.
In 2026 we are having our freedom continuously whittled away. It is becoming harder to exercise personal agency for many reasons, some economic, many political. The policies of our governments often don’t seem to be aligned with our values and interests, affecting our intrinsic motivation and our well-being. I think that freedom more than any other state of being drives people towards their aspirations and higher goals. When we feel the rug of freedom being pulled out from under our feet it can be hard to avoid a negative view of the world.
So yes, maybe it is not possible to hear the sounds of joy and freedom, to feel moments of joy and freedom in the same way we did as children because now we know what the world is really like. That just means we have to fight harder. Freedom and joy are intrinsically linked. Still present even if the halcyon days of our youth are long gone.
Contemplating joy and freedom makes me think of hindrance and restraint. People are protesting and rioting in many parts of the world right now. Our societies are increasingly disaffected and dispirited. I hear many people saying “Where is this all going to end?” It’s an unsettling time to be alive.
I think of Albert Camus at moments like this. He always offers me comfort with his wise observations of life and the human condition. He said:
In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.
Our freedoms are being challenged like never before, but that alone cannot completely destroy our sense of joy, the sights and sounds of it – the lemon curd, the butterflies, the lights on the bridge. We must remember the old days, the things that meant something. We must cling to what we need to, in order to forge forward, holding our heads high as we walk into the length and breadth of that unforgotten, invincible summer.
