how often do you feel joy?

I'm continuing to read memoirs that stun and dazzle.

Charles M. Blow's Fire Shut Up in my Bones, about growing up Black and bisexual in the American South. He writes directly and powerfully about being abused by a family member, not minimizing the horror, finding the grace and truth within himself. His realization of his skills as a writer is also beautifully and humbly written. 

"These were things that I had to learn to fold tight so that no one could read them. Even now it seemed to me that the world was full of boys like Chester and men like Paul--the ones who looked at me and saw a chance, not a child."

"I had to resort to the most useful and dangerous lesson a damaged child ever learns--how to lie to himself."

"There is nowhere to hide in a small house. I had to make a room within rooms, a safe place midway in the mind, behind seeing and before knowing. There I could resurrect memories and bury secrets."

I'm also about finished with Erika Krouse's Tell Me Everything, which combines true crime, an amateur p.i, a dirty football program and a complicated mom-daughter-abuser triangle. This one hits so close to home that I can only read a chapter at a time. Krouse references psychiatrist Daniel Siegel who writes about making sense of one's past, and people who tell the same trauma story over and over. I'm going to read Siegel and see if it can bring some thoughtfulness to one of my support groups. 

Anyway, to the question: how often do you feel joy? For me, infrequently. But I'm hoping a weekend of music and friends and nature might bring me some.