Joy. It seemed so long since she had felt pure joy. The joy a child finds in small things like a sparkly rock washed up on a beach, a fairy-tale toadstool nestled in the soft moss of the forest floor, the taste of snowflakes falling gently on the tongue and the whitening ground.
Joy. How could she find it again? Return it to her heart. To see the world though the amazed eyes of the little girl she used to be. She remembered sitting under the boughs touching the ground of the old willow tree that once stood at the top of her grandmother’s driveway. It was her castle, her hidey-hole, her reading room. Here she felt protected and free. Here she had too had felt pure joy. The joy of the stories she wrote in her head, lying on the grass and looking at the world up through the willow branches.
Joy. She looked out her kitchen window, ignoring the pile of dishes. She looked past the hamper of clothes to be washed. She didn’t glance at her computer or the paper work to be organized, done and filed. Was there still joy out there in the world for her?
Bubbles from the dish liquid floated past her eyes, catching the light like prisms. She watched them pass between her and the window, rising higher and higher. She caught one with her outstretched hand. She laughed. It felt like so long since she had laughed.
Joy. There still was joy in the world. Joy in the small things. Joy in spirit. Joy in belief. She just had to stop looking for it. Joy would come to her if her heart was open. Joy would be there as long as she saw the world through amazement and willow tree branches.