The Wellspring of Joy

Envy may seem to be human nature, but deeper still is mudita, the innate delight in the well-being of others.

By Anne Cushman

This little ritual sets the tone for an asana practice in which I am tuned in to countless blessings that I might otherwise have overlooked: the complex, effortless coordination of muscles in the simplest forward bend; the peace that comes in the pause after a full exhalation; the release of the knot in my spine just behind my heart as I twist. Instead of looking for what feels wrong in a posture, I seek out what feels right and invite that action to expand.

As I flow through my practice, I am amazed at how often my mind reverts into the well-worn groove of looking for what's wrong—relentlessly pointing out the myriad ways in which I could improve my body and my practice (not to mention my career and my hair). It takes discipline, at first, to keep bringing my attention back to the joys I am actually experiencing in that very moment, not the imagined pleasures that would result if only I could whip my life and body into shape.

But the more I focus on mudita as I do asanas, the more the practice snowballs. The positive sensations become like a magnet, naturally drawing my awareness to them. I give myself permission to revel in the simple joys of embodiment, to bow down in gratitude to life itself. And this grateful joy becomes a source of nourishment that continues to feed me when I get off my mat.

Little Blessings Everywhere

After a session of mudita practice, I find I naturally have a heightened ability to find joy everywhere. Walking to the park with my son, I am more likely to savor the warm touch of his hand in mine and the deep purple of the morning glories twining over a neighbor's gate, and less likely to fret about whether I'm going to be late for our play date because my little boy is dawdling to drop pebbles down the drainage grate. Pushing a shopping cart through the supermarket, I'm more likely to appreciate the jewel-like piles of crimson beets and yellow sunburst squash, and less likely to get irritated by a new cashier who's taking too long to locate the price of cherry tomatoes.

Mudita practice is not about denying darkness and sorrow. Rather, it works hand in hand with the practice of karuna, or "compassion," in which we focus on opening our hearts to pain and suffering. Our joy is made all the brighter when we truly let ourselves feel how fleeting life is—how filled with loss and grief and terror. And that awareness of sorrow and impermanence helps sensitize us not only to our own joys but to the joys of others.

Through the practice of mudita, I have been able to celebrate the bright moments of joy that punctuate even the darkest days. In the long, bleak months after my baby daughter passed away, I found small refuges of peace and joy—a quail family rustling through the tall grass, the scent of a lavender bush. And these moments of happiness—a garden planted at the edge of the chasm of death—are what helped mend my heart.

The practice of mudita shifts us into a deeper experience of our own lives, so we stand in the center of the actual, simple joys that are unfolding for us moment by moment rather than comparing our experiences with the imagined ecstasies of others. And as we become more appreciative of our own blessings, the joys of other people, instead of being a threat, naturally start to feed our hearts as well.

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