Flahoolick

Leave it to the fun-loving Irish to coin a term – flahoolick – for ordinary things that bring extraordinary joy; to notice flahoolick is to live a fulsome life, mindfully capturing details, deeply experiencing moments, allowing for wonder and revelation.

Color radiates flahoolick when vividly displayed in dancing tulips, sparking seas, vibrant sunsets, a bowl of fruit, a cozy home, a baby’s eyes. I am awed by flahoolick in impressionist art – Renoir’s dappled sunshine, Monet’s shimmering waterways.

I can spend many a flahoolick hour pouring over home photo essays, daydreaming about life in those cottages and farmhouses. Music, too, can trigger flahoolick surprise, like when I realized that Bridgerton’s lavish regency-era orchestral arrangements are often covers of carefully selected contemporary songs (Wait, isn’t that Madonna’s Material Girl?!).

Flahoolick exudes from the serene landscape and soothing wave sounds that accompany my ambling, deep-breathing, deep-thinking walks along ever-changing ocean beaches. People-powered flahoolick abides in intense, winding conversations, in laughter-filled game nights, and in little kids’ riotous giggles.

And the crowning glories: the appreciative pause invoked by exquisitely composed narrative – weaving perfectly chosen words, rich metaphors, and powerful messaging. The flow state spawned by working on my own writing, wordcrafting, and essaying. These experiences comprise this writer’s most treasured flahoolick.

This essay is brought to you by my spring writing class, and is offered as a necessary and sincere counterpoint to my recent angsty soap box pieces. My thanks to Maribeth and my class mates for sharing their flahoolicks and feedback; you will note that I kept the theme of the assignment, but disregarded all the word count rules.