Today I Choose to be Elated – How to be Elated

It’s 8:23 PM. I’m standing on my back deck, watching bats dive for mosquitoes in the growing dusk, and I’m cheering them on like they’re my personal superhero squad. “Get ’em!” I whisper to the little dark shapes. “Show those mosquitoes who’s boss!”

My husband appears in the doorway. “Are you… talking to bats?”

“I’m being their cheerleader,” I say, completely serious. “They’re working so hard.”

He shakes his head and goes back inside, but I stay. Because watching these tiny acrobats execute perfect aerial maneuvers fills me with something I can only call elation. Not happiness. Not contentment. Pure, giddy elation.

This is what I’ve discovered at 61: elation doesn’t require grand occasions or life-changing events. It lives in the mosquito-hunting bats and the way the chickens—my “fluffy butts,” as I call them—strut around like they own the world.

The Accessibility of Joy

Everything they tell you about finding joy is backwards. We’re conditioned to save elation for graduations, promotions, vacations—the big moments. But elation isn’t a destination you reach. It’s these little bubbles of happiness that appear from the ethereal out of nowhere.

Tuesday morning, 10:47 AM. I’m refilling the bird bath when I notice a dragonfly hovering over the water. She dips down—just the tip of her abdomen—and takes the tiniest sip. The delicacy of it, the precision, the fact that she chose my water… I am instantly, inexplicably elated.

My neighbor probably thinks I’m strange, standing there grinning at a dragonfly. She’s not wrong. But she’s also missing out.

The Physics of Small Moments

Last week, a stranger at the grocery store complimented my earrings. Just that. “Those are beautiful.” But I felt this quick little bounce in my step afterward, this effervescent lightness that carried me through the entire produce section.

I started paying attention to these moments. The way elation moves through your body—not the heavy satisfaction of accomplishment, but something buoyant and bright. It’s physical. It makes you want to skip, even at 61.

Yesterday, I actually did skip. Just three steps between my car and the bank. Nobody saw. But the elation was real.

The Fluffy Butt Chronicles

My chickens provide daily opportunities for elation. This morning, I watched Lelu (she’s the adventurous one) discover a new slug. She approached it like a scientist examining a rare specimen, head tilted, one eye focused. Then she ate it in one dramatic gulp and looked around as if to say, “Did anyone else see that athletic achievement?”

Pure comedy. Pure elation.

Morticia, the drama queen of the flock, spent ten minutes trying to fit through a gap that was clearly too small for her. Not because she needed to—just because it was there. The determination, the complete lack of awareness that she looked ridiculous… I laughed until my stomach hurt.

These aren’t momentous occasions. They’re Tuesday afternoon realness. But they fill me with this giddy appreciation for the absurdity of life.

Learning to Catch Bubbles

The thing about elation is you have to be present to catch it. It doesn’t wait. It doesn’t announce itself. It just appears in the space between one breath and the next.

Three days ago, I was washing dishes—the most mundane task imaginable—when the evening light hit the soap bubbles just right. For thirty seconds, my kitchen sink was full of tiny rainbows. I stood there, hands dripping, completely mesmerized.

My husband walked in. “The dishes getting the better of you?”

“Look at the light,” I said.

He looked. “Nice,” he said, and kept walking.

But I stayed. Because the light was more than nice. It was a small miracle happening in my ordinary Tuesday, and I was the only witness willing to receive it.

The Elation Archive

I’ve started keeping a mental collection of these moments:

– The way my coffee cup fit perfectly in my hands this morning
– Finding a twenty-dollar bill in last year’s jacket
– The cat next door acknowledging my existence with one slow blink
– Successfully parallel parking on the first try
– The sound of my son’s laugh during our phone call
– Discovering the perfect avocado at the store
– Rain starting just as I got inside

None groundbreaking. All elation-worthy.

The Permission to Be Giddy

At 61, I’ve given myself permission to be delighted by small things. To feel giddy watching dragonflies. To cheer for bats. To find my chickens endlessly entertaining.

Society tells us to be dignified at this age. Measured. Appropriate. But elation doesn’t follow social protocols. It shows up when it wants to, and if you’re too worried about looking foolish, you’ll miss it entirely.

Last month, I saw two elderly men feeding ducks at the park. They were having an intense discussion about which duck deserved the last piece of bread. The passion in their voices, the complete seriousness with which they debated duck politics… I was overcome with joy for their joy.

That’s elation too—being lifted by other people’s small happiness.

The Ripple Effect of Little Joys

I’ve noticed something interesting: when I allow myself to feel elated about small things, it creates space for others to do the same. My enthusiasm becomes contagious, but in the gentlest way.

When I excitedly point out the hawk circling overhead, my walking companion looks up too. When I can’t contain my delight over the perfect symmetry of fallen leaves, my friend starts noticing patterns everywhere.

Elation shared is elation doubled.

The Tuesday Afternoon Truth

Here’s what I know about elation: it doesn’t require special circumstances. It doesn’t need perfect weather or good news or solved problems. It needs attention. It needs willingness. It needs someone brave enough to feel giddy about dragonfly sips and chicken antics.

This morning, I watched a spider rebuild her web after yesterday’s rain. The methodical precision, the quiet determination, the perfect geometry emerging strand by strand. I stood there for fifteen minutes, completely captivated.

My neighbor probably thinks I’m developing concerning habits, standing motionless in my yard staring at various creatures. She’s not entirely wrong. But these moments of fascination, these bubbles of happiness that appear from nowhere—this is where elation lives.

The Daily Practice

I’ve learned to hunt for these moments deliberately:

– Morning coffee ritual: finding one thing that’s exactly right
– Dog walk meditation: noticing light, shadows, unexpected beauty
– Grocery store game: appreciating one small human interaction
– Evening reflection: recalling one moment that made me smile
– Before sleep: gratitude for one tiny thing that sparked joy

Not revolutionary practices. Just ordinary attention paid to ordinary miracles.

When Elation Hides

Some days, elation feels impossible. Grief sits heavy. Worry takes up all the space. Pain makes everything else seem frivolous.

On those days, I don’t force it. I don’t lecture myself about gratitude or positive thinking. I just stay open to the possibility that somewhere, in some small corner of the day, a tiny bubble of light might appear.

Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn’t. Both are okay.

Tonight’s Invitation

As I write this, the bats are beginning their evening hunt. In a few minutes, I’ll go back outside to watch and cheer. My husband will probably shake his head again. The neighbors might wonder.

But I’ve learned that elation requires witnesses. Someone has to see the dragonfly sip, appreciate the chicken strut, marvel at the bat’s perfect dive. Someone has to receive these small gifts of joy that the world offers constantly.

Today I choose to be elated. Not because everything is perfect. Not because I’ve achieved something remarkable. But because right now, somewhere in my yard, a dragonfly is planning her next perfect landing, my fluffy butts are settling in for the night with great dignity, and bats are preparing for their mosquito aerobatics show.

That’s enough. More than enough. That’s everything.

Elation doesn’t wait for special occasions. It lives in the ordinary Tuesday moments when we’re brave enough to let ourselves feel giddy about small miracles.

And there are always small miracles, if we know how to look.