A friend whose adolescent son struggles with anxiety, depression – and addiction – recently said to me, “I want more joy in my life.”

For an instant I just stared at her.  Who doesn’t? I wanted to shoot back.

Instead, I picked up her words, like a light sweater on a cool day, and slung them over my shoulder to see how they felt.

My life is free from the catastrophic events crushing so many people of the world.  Blessings abound, and for each I am aware and very grateful.

But I, too, seek joy.

It’s easy to find it at home.  You see, there is this tawny, amber-colored dog with brown eyes that sits sphinxlike – on a Persian rug, no less.  Charley is her name and her deep stare bores into me.  She is a greyhound, a rescued racer, just 48 pounds and stunningly beautiful.  When I gaze at her, I feel that joy my friend seeks.

Even better, when she’s outside, but inside a gated field, and I slip off her harness, and she takes off running like the athlete she was born to be, the joy that suffuses my soul spills over into tiny tears that stream down my cheeks.

That’s pure joy.

And then there’s the feeling of heading to Florida for a time, to spend it with a son who will celebrate 12 years in recovery.  Or recovery itself.  Knowing one is free from addiction, or its effects, at least for today.

So is it freedom my friend and I seek?   Is freedom joy?

What if those of us who suffer from the ravages of addiction just stood up, like the crazed anchor in the 1970s movie “Network” and bellowed “I’m mad as hell and I’m not gonna’ take it anymore” and shouted “We want more joy!”  Would that do it?

As one year rolls into the next, my friend needs to find that joy for herself.  She knows it, too – whether her son is using or not.

Or maybe I can just loan her Charley.

But not for too long.