I woke up with a wispy joy this morning. I loved how my bed felt, how my body felt, how the light fell in the room. It was an inside job. None of those outer stuff was any different from any other morning. I was different. I had that rare quality of enjoyment, of joy, of the joy of being alive.
It is so rare because it, just like the tiny blue flowers at the root of your grass, are hidden by the tall grass. They are tiny, they are insignificant, and our eyes look for the big, the flashy, the showy, and can’t even see the beauty of the tiny blue flowers.
It is rare, because most of us, very early in life, have overpowered with a demand of how life should be.
The man downstairs where I live, has two sons from a marriage, that come to stay with him 4-5 times a year. Two boys, one around 5, the other around 7.
The five year old still has joy. Joy of life. Joy for no reason. Joy because it’s there. His laugh is like the laughter of a mountain brook, bubbling. His brother laughs, but he always has a reason to laugh, mostly at his little brother’s expense. There is no joy in his laugh, there is glee. Glee has a reason, an evil reason. Glee cost another something. It’s pure desire to receive for the self alone.
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