As I sip my morning coffee and glance out the window, the neighborhood yard art catches my eye—each decoration like a small, radiant testament to the joy of living. There’s something about yard art that brings me an unexpected sense of delight. It’s not always about the art itself, but rather the simple act of celebrating life in full view of the world. Each decoration tells a story, whether it’s a row of twinkling lights, a whimsical gnome, or a sprawling set of flags fluttering in the breeze. They seem to announce that life, in all its messy and beautiful forms, is worth celebrating.
This celebration is what makes yard art so charming. Take, for example, my neighbor who lives just a street over. She lives alone, her blinds always closed, and her arthritis keeps her indoors more than she’d like. Yet, every holiday—be it Halloween, Thanksgiving, or the Fourth of July—her yard becomes an exuberant display of festivity. I often wonder what drives her to decorate with such enthusiasm. But then I realize: perhaps it’s not just the decorations themselves that she cherishes, but the joy of sharing a bit of brightness with the world. A small flag here, a stuffed animal there, a little gnome with a pointing finger standing next to the garden bed—these are her ways of expressing that life, even in its quieter, more solitary moments, is worth celebrating. And perhaps, in some way, it brings her a sense of connection to her neighbors, to the season, to the world outside her door.
It’s this very type of simple joy that Ross Gay captures so beautifully in his recent work The Book of (More) Delights, the sequel to his earlier collection The Book of Delights. Gay, known for his poetic insights, embarked on a year-long journey of noticing and celebrating the small, everyday moments of delight. Starting on his 42nd birthday, Gay penned daily “essayette” pieces—short, reflective essays about things that delighted him, ranging from fireflies to the peculiar joy of adult braces. These small, seemingly trivial moments became a source of immense pleasure for Gay, who sought to “keep the light” alive despite the weight of the world.
Gay’s writing strikes a balance between acknowledging the difficult, often painful realities of life and embracing the fleeting moments of beauty that can offset them. In his words, “You can sort of see that pull to get completely floored. I think it’s an interesting tension to be like, I’m trying. I’m trying to keep the light.” His work doesn’t deny grief, anger, or sorrow—rather, it uses them as contrasts, framing them against the lighter, more joyous moments that punctuate our daily lives. It’s a delicate dance, one that acknowledges the complexity of human existence while still managing to focus on the things that uplift us.
I find myself deeply resonating with Gay’s approach. In a world that often feels heavy with news of hardship and sorrow, cultivating a practice of delight has become an essential refuge. It requires attention—a deliberate choice to notice the small wonders that surround us. At first, it’s difficult. We’re so accustomed to rush, to distraction, that we may overlook the simple pleasures that make life worthwhile. But the more we practice, the more we see.
This morning, I choose to delight in the sight of a giant orange fabric carrot hanging from a tree branch across the street. It’s odd, yes—but it’s also joyful in its absurdity. I smile at its vibrant color, at the playful whimsy it adds to the yard. And I think: this is it. This is the delight that Gay speaks of, the one that requires us to slow down and pay attention to the world around us. When we do, we see the infinite, the natural, the ever-present joy that surrounds us—often in the most unexpected forms.
In a way, yard art is an act of defiance. It says: yes, life is complicated, messy, and full of sorrow. But even amidst the chaos, there is always room for joy. A yard decorated with flags, lights, and stuffed animals might not change the world, but it has the power to shift the mood of an entire neighborhood. It reminds us that delight is a choice, that there’s always something to celebrate if we’re willing to look for it.
Like Gay, I’ve come to understand that delight is not just an emotional response—it’s a practice, a discipline. It’s not about ignoring the hard things in life but rather weaving them into the rich tapestry of joy and beauty that life also offers. So today, I will continue to be attentive, noticing the little things—the leaping greenly spirits of trees, the fluttering flags, the orange fabric carrot—and celebrate them with all the enthusiasm I can muster.
After all, as E.E. Cummings so eloquently put it, “for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes.” In the end, isn’t that what life is really about? The endless cycle of finding joy in the simplest things, and sharing that joy with others, however we can. Whether through a fabric carrot or a well-placed gnome, these small moments of celebration have the power to remind us that even on the darkest days, there is always something to be grateful for. And sometimes, that’s more than enough.
