Recently, a reader told me in an e-mail she enjoys my column and said, "I have a project for you. I want you to write about things that give you joy."

I was stunned, perplexed, baffled, stopped dead in my tracks, aroused.

Well, maybe not aroused.

She was right.

I've become a crank. Me. The guy who just a few years back was wildly enthusiastic about virtually everything in life. To show you how enthusiastic I was, a foreign person once told me in broken English (no joke), "how come everything you love?"

About ninety-nine percent of all opinion columns whether they appear on the web or in newspapers are complaining about something.

But I was stumped. What gives me joy? I don't know. I don't think there is anything.

It can't be my total lack of mechanical skills to the point I suspect I'm an idiot savant (a dullard in basic abilities, brilliant perhaps in one). I was out hacking weeds with a sickle, missed and buried the blade in my leg to a depth of two inches. I came in the house with the knife sticking from my leg and calmly told my wife, "I think we should discuss this."

She screamed.

It can't be my venomous in-law relatives, who hate my guts for no reason at all, wish me ill and want to rub my nose in it (they're dysfunctional religious fanatics).

It can't be that pile of money or career fulfillment always just around the corner, but never materialized, or that vacation to Rome dreamed about but never realized.

It can't be declining physical powers to'match a receding hairline.

It can't be bitter, angry exchanges at home like, "why are you so intense?"

"I'm not intense."

"You're yelling."

"I was not yelling! Now I'm yelling!"

"This marriage is not working."

"You just don't understand me." (I used to say this to my parents. I've really evolved as a human being).

It's not my current job, where the boss calls me into his office, solemnly asks me to close the door so others can't hear, and grimly announces, " well...John. I've got news about your performance....and it's not good."

"Darn it! I'm gonna come up with something that gives me joy-----even if it kills me!"

The ocean is still blue. The beautiful, unfathomable ocean that puny man still can't dominate, even if boasting he can. I love the ocean.

My daughters' smile, like sunshine. The way she hugged and kissed me the other day when I wanted to jump off a bridge.

Greek temples. I love Greek temples. I want to enthrall friends describing events that took place 3,000 years ago as we tour ancient ruins (I believe I'm the reincarnation of Ulysses).

The love of family, which despite arguing and contention suddenly becomes apparent in a crisis. Our car broke down, and I had to hike along the freeway for help, and my wife and daughter cried they'd never see me again.

And friends, long-held and dear, like a certain brunette in El Dorado County.

The simple pleasures of being alive are the best, like smelling pasta cooking on the stove. These are the first things forgotten in the crass, futile rush for money and power.

I'd forgotten to enjoy them while I can.

Thanks Maureen.