The singing snowman still works. Every. Single. Year. 

I know I’d be sad if it didn’t. But there’s a moment—or perhaps multiple moments, after the twentieth and the fifty-third and the eighty-ninth time of the clanging “We Wish You a Merry Christmas—I wonder if I’d be okay if it no longer worked.

I’ve searched for a replacement. My mom has searched for a replacement. She’s looked in the original store, plus other similar stories. I’ve looked online—extensively. We’ve tried similar snowmen. Nothing is close enough. This is the snowman. I can’t remember exactly when she gave it to me, but it was shortly after I’d moved into my own house unexpectedly in my late 40s. It might have been the first Christmas, when she also gave me the nativity I grew up with. She was going to give it to me eventually anyway, but she thought it would bring me comfort that year. It did. Maybe the snowman came along with the oldest granddaughter, who dances to it every year, as does every other grandchild. I don’t know what it is about the snowman who smiles and holds a Christmas tree that lights up as the song blares as loudly as I think is possible for a decoration to blare. This year, my youngest granddaughter giggled and bounced like a little rabbit after she pressed the snowman’s hand and the music began.

Perhaps I wouldn’t miss the blaring snowman, but I would most certainly miss the unbridled thrill of the kids who twirl and hop around the room when the snowman’s hand is pressed one zillion and seventy-nine times in one month each year.

What brings you unbridled joy? The kind that instantly fills you and spurs you to move, twirl, and maybe even hop up and down as soon as it starts (although some movement can be more in your mind than in your body, depending on your age, so don’t take me too literally)? It’s not as if you can live in that state. The normal, resting state gives it context. We need the stability and energy for the bursts that follow pressing the button. 

Consider different stages of your life to identify what has brought you the heightened joys at different points. They can seem silly. As we grow, we might devalue our childish ways, but if we can look for the purity of our experiences and even our emotions, we might tap into remnants. And when we add our adult perspective, we might begin to connect the pieces, understanding our excitement wasn’t just about a new toy but about feeling heard and cared about. It wasn’t about a special recipe but about someone taking the time to help us. It wasn’t about a musical snowman but about having a fun place to explore and play and make memories. 

And now we are where we are—with (hopefully) more mature values and emotions and perspectives and joy. But at its core, there are similarities. Joy is joy. It’s deep-seated, yet it’s simple. It can be in a connection with a stranger or a moment with someone close to us. It can be a glimpse of nature. It can be a memory or an aha moment of learning something new. And maybe you won’t hop up and down, but there is a leap inside, a sigh, a giggle, and perhaps even a tear. And while the way it works might change, joy itself will always be available.

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