Before I could begin this daily practice of joy, I had to spend time in a  dark place in which so much became obscured; where little seemed likely, let alone possible; where neither love of self nor of the Divine surfaced freely; where the desiccated comforts of the past no longer held promise; where only limited ideas of what is possible subsisted; where even the distant light seemed an imagined mirage. From deep behind very tired eyes, I mirrored out a very tired world. 

It was there I began to rediscover myself and slowly reawaken to the light of the possible, to the Love and joy that never leaves us. Only hibernates.

On last week's 1,800 mile drive through Texas and New Mexico, I found myself thinking about everything I have learned while creating and living this daily practice of joy. Much of first half of the drive from Santa Fe to Austin is particularly devoid of visual interest -- although the recent monsoons here in New Mexico have created a lush green landscape that we rarely enjoy here in the desert Southwest.  After a gorgeous first hour of red cliffs, green pinon trees and mountainous landscapes heading south out of Santa Fe, the rest of the four-hour drive through New Mexico is flat, flat, flat, empty, empty, empty, and nary a tree for miles. Very tempting to dismiss as boring. But having had a father who considered boredom a cardinal sin, I just don't do boring. (Imagine the prospect of Vincent Price haunting you for life, and you wouldn't either! LOL!)

crucible (noun): a place or occasion of severe test or trial

For the past three months, I have been writing this weekly blog about joy. So, I thought it might be time for me to check in with myself and with all of you. A progress report, so to speak. . .

From time to time, I hear a nasty voice in my head that says, “Who cares about your silly practice of joy, what you do or don’t do, your insignificant stories about your little life? Look at what’s happening all around — horrible things. Why does this, why do you even matter?"

This past week, I had the pleasure of speaking about art to two audiences of art lovers in Pittsburgh and Cleveland. I cannot tell you how wonderful it was to look out at a sea of faces all of whom love something that has long been part of my lifelong practice of joy.

The title of this blog came to me last Sunday while I was walking — as ideas often do. A few thoughts about what I might write floated through my mind as I hiked the small mesa above my home looking out over the Sangre de Cristo mountains. But the actual content came in an unanticipated way — when I stumbled across an online comment to a terrific article that was published on Monday about my dad and me.

The comment read: “Loved Vincent Price but factually he did not support his daughter’s ‘lifestyle’."

Apparently Confucius actually did say: "Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated."

I’m discovering this is true about my daily practice of joy, too. Joy is really simple. We just insist on making it complicated

Toward the end of the talk I give about my father, there is a slide with this quote: “I have come to believe that the highest compliment is not remembering someone; it is missing them."

I have just spent probably the most extraordinary week of my life on a spiritual retreat with an amazing group of my soulmates — none of whom I had ever met face to face until this past Tuesday. I didn’t have to remember to practice joy once over those four days. I lived it!

I’m still processing everything that happened, but I’m sure I will write about it many times in many ways in the coming months. What I want to write about now is the experience that laid the foundation for my being able to give myself the gift not just of going to the retreat, but of showing up with an open and willing heart. 

This coming Wednesday, May 27, would have been my dad's 104th birthday.

In 2011, his hometown of St Louis hosted  a two-month celebration  of his 100th birthday, which some clever person decided to call the Vincentennial. On his actual birthday night, I had the privilege of giving a talk at the Missouri History Museum to an enthusiastic overflow audience, who joined me in celebrating the life of this man I and they adored.

Here is a short video from that evening in St Louis. . . which launched me on the journey that brought me here. . .to my Daily Practice of Joy.

For as long as I can remember, I have loved horses.

Neither of my parents had any connection to horses whatsoever. My mother was terrified of them, and my father once wrote, “The horse and I just don’t see eye to eye. In the first place the top of a horse and my bottom don’t fit. My legs are too long and my torso too short — in short, I look ridiculous on top of a horse and I suspect that it feels ridiculous under me. Maybe the situations should be reversed."