Summer is hard for me. (I’d barely typed the first sentence before I was interrupted by one of my kids.) Even with significant privilege, not the least of which is being a stay-at-home mom who doesn’t need to scramble for childcare in the summer, I frequently find myself feeling dysregulated from breaking up fights or constant interruptions. (I made it this far before I was needed by another kid to tend to a small injury).

I feel much like Herman Melville did when he wrote to his friend Nathaniel Hawthorne, “I am so pulled hither and thither by circumstances.” He longed for “the calm, the coolness, the silent grass-growing mood in which a man ought always to compose” (in Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic, pg 158-9). I have not yet experienced these idyllic circumstances since becoming a mother over twelve years ago, but a girl can dream, right?

In my state of dysregulation, I seek ways to ground myself. In recent months, I’ve been contemplating how while trauma lives in the body (think The Body Keeps the Score by Dr. Vessel van der Kolk), so does joy. We experience joy in our bodies through our senses. Gretchen Rubin’s latest book, Life in the Five Senses: How Exploring the Senses Got Me Out of My Head and Into the World, helped me notice, name, and intentionally seek out the sensations that bring me joy. They can be small—a spritz of perfume, a juicy, ripe strawberry, a morning sunset. In a time when I don’t have my ideal amount of quiet, solitary time to think and write, noticing small pleasures helps me stay present and reminds me to cultivate joy.

Last week on the We Can Do Hard Things podcast, the theme was “delight.” Launching from a conversation with Ross Gay about his book, The Book of Delights: Essays, the podcast hosts spent the next episode discussing how they experience delight in their bodies and some examples of things that delight them. I was taken by one of Amanda Doyle’s examples. She went into an Italian store to pick up dinner and noticed a red tin of Amaretto cookies.

She said, “And so, I told the lady at the checkout how much I used to love those Italian Amaretto cookies at my Aunt Peggy’s. She said, ‘You still love them.’ So I bought a few, wrapped in parchment paper and turned and squeezed at the edges like a bow. Later at home with an unexpected boon of 15 frivolous minutes, minutes that I didn’t even need to steal from the GPS, I sent Aunt Peggy a message about the Amaretto cookies, about every fanciful, delicious treat I could find in her home and her life, and about how the lady at the checkout had concurred that aunt’s houses are the best houses. And how I agreed, and knew that I had the best of those houses and the best of those aunts. And then, I ate the Amaretto cookies, and I still love them.”

For Amanda, the joy was in the taste of the cookies, but also in the memory of and her connection to her Aunt Peggy who supplied meaningful joys in her childhood.

For days I’ve been thinking about that simple line, “You still love them.” I’ve wondered, what are things that I used to love but have not had or done in a while? Do I still love them? And can seeking them out help me connect to joy and make it through these long summer days?

Some of the easiest examples for me to think about are with food. I met up at a park with a friend to talk while my girls played. I brought a cooler bag filled with Otter pops, not only for my girls, but for me and my friend. They are not a rich, indulgent, decadent treat. They are a simple delight on a hot summer’s day. I loved them in my childhood and I still love them.

After an immensely long and snow-filled winter, I found myself amazed by each new development of spring. From the first white blossoms on my neighbor’s apricot trees to the tulips in my yard planted by the previous homeowners, it all felt like a miracle unfolding before me. I’ve taken extra care to notice the beauty around me—the sun shimmering across Utah Lake, the smell of freshly cut grass, and the wildflowers that emerged in abundance on the desert hillsides near my house.

I may not be able to write a paragraph without hearing “Mom!” right now, but it helps when I pay extra attention to the sensations that bring me joy.

I’d love to hear in the comments about the small delights that bring you joy. Is there something from your childhood that you find you still love?