A Thing About Joy
There’s a part of joy, of seeking peace, that is intentional; it doesn’t happen by chance. It is rooted in knowing the odds, understanding your pain, and still choosing to smile even when your eyes do not agree. It is in opening the doors of your heart, reducing the fire around its walls, and letting joy in. It is in offering it a seat, watching as it settles beside grief, between regret and numbness—while you silently deal with the discomfort from warmth that feels foreign.
As joy settles in, it doesn't challenge sadness. No, it just smiles at it, simply leans in and takes on some of its weight. It listens in silence, swaying calmly through chaos. It offers its companions a dance, excited to communicate with them, happy to be alone too. It doesn't rush—begs to help when it must, but gently. And soon, when its presence no longer feels like an attack, it walks around your mind, lighting up every hurt and cracking up every shadow of doubt. It earns its keep, cleans up after itself, apologises for all the discomforts it has caused you, but doesn't dwell on them. It encourages you not to dwell on your mistakes too.
Then, on gloomy days—especially the ones that creep up on you—joy doesn't crackle like the fires of your failures nor panic like your grief. Instead, it stays firm, unafraid. You remember that lately, its hugs have been longer, its words even softer, like a lunch pack that's just enough to sustain you until you're back home for a delicious hot meal. It doesn't bother you but for the gentlest of touches; reflected in the way you suddenly remember something that makes you smile amidst tears.
When you're wrestling with your struggles, (overwhelmed by your own failures), when you cannot stomach any light, and prefer to sit alone in the valley of shadows; it steps back as you push it away. Offering hope still, never truly leaves, but stays just a breath away.
You go back in burrowing, finding it harder to hold onto your pain. The arms of your grief don’t feel like home anymore, and as you sigh, in comes joy—there as you breathe in, to hold you up as you rise, to keep you steady as you fall.
Joy is never tired.
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It does this waltz with you as often as you allow it. As it learns your rhythms, you get better at displacing your fears. Soon, you lead it into the choicest part of your heart, and joy likes to share. It doesn’t mind the clutter, the baggage, or even the darkness that almost tripped it. It frowns for a bit as its light dims but doesn’t waver in its will.
So in the coming days, when the gloom returns, joy is constant by your side. It breathes with you through your aches. On these days, joy does not look like its usual self, but it feels the same, always.
Until you are ready.
It stands by you as pain bows out of your heart, walks with you as these cluster of life's consequences filter out your porch. Later you'll realize you never had to try so hard. There are easier places for them to be than your light-filled mind. You only needed to let them go.
And then, as you look up in quiet appreciation, you see a promise blazing in its eyes—a promise to protect.
In the next moment, it shines brighter before your eyes, lusher—like a three-dimensional version of your favorite painting.
“Who are you?” you wonder.
“I am joy and peace and every good thing that your mind needs. And if they ever return, I’ll be here, living.”
