J is for Joy

From the memoirs of Billie Harper, looking back on her learning journey.

Joy isn’t the same as happiness. Happiness can be fleeting—a rush, a reaction, a good outcome. But joy? Joy is quieter, more lasting. It sits beneath the surface, even when things are hard.

I first understood joy, very early on, while harvesting saltbush with the community one cool morning in Djilba. My hands were cold, the soil still held the night’s damp, and yet—there was laughter. Someone sang. Children danced between rows. There was work, yes. But also a kind of lightness. A shared moment where nothing needed fixing. It just was. That morning stayed with me—proof that joy can live even in the simplest acts, when we meet the day together.

Joy, I realised then, doesn’t wait for perfection. It sneaks in when we’re present—when we show up fully, despite the mess of life. We find it in stories, in the stillness before sleep, in the way someone remembers your name with care. We feel it when we’re aligned—with ourselves, each other, the Earth.

In the journals from the Rebuild era, I was struck by how often joy appeared—not as a luxury, but as a quiet force of resilience. It wasn’t about distraction, but resistance—a way to reclaim beauty amidst the grief and grit. Some communities painted murals on flood-scarred buildings. Others gathered to cook over solar fires—mirrored ovens that turned sunlight into shared meals, singing old songs with new verses. In our zone, they planted wildflowers along what became the learning trail. They bloom still. Proof that joy, once planted, can outlive us.

Joy tells us we are alive—not just surviving, but living.

So when you feel heavy, I invite you to ask:
What brings me back to myself?
What sparks that quiet lift in my chest?

Because joy is not a luxury. It’s a form of remembering. Of choosing life.