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Posts Tagged ‘joy’

Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.
                  —Mary Oliver
 
 
I could not have imagined
how every year my daughter
and I would bake a chocolate beet cake
for Timothée Chalamet’s birthday—
nor could I have foreseen
how it would thrill me—
this sweet ritual in which we celebrate
the life of an actor who brings
us joy. Joy needs such a meager
door through which to enter and reveal
itself. A door I can’t imagine
with a handle I can’t find
except by loving the world
and the people in it.
I would have thought loving
made the heart more full.
And it does. But it makes
the heart more spacious, too,
a place where anything could happen,
even what is real: a daughter,
a mother, and hours in the kitchen
singing and stirring, the scent
of chocolate, earthy and nutty,
floating in the air like a song.
 

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Kinetic Joy


                  for my daughter
 
 
It’s perhaps like billiards,
in which the cue ball collides
with another ball, and the kinetic
energy passes on to a second ball—
that’s how it is when you,
in your joy, collide with me in a hug,
and your joy passes on to me,
my every molecule vibrating
as your bliss becomes my bliss,
your joy becomes my joy, until
I’m dizzy with it, spinning with it,
rolling around the room with it,
in fact it’s what I was made for,
to be moved by you, by your joy.

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The Fool doesn’t ask
what is past the edge—
what some might call
The Wrong Direction.
He simply smiles
and continues toward
the beginning—
Barefoot. Grinning.
A rucksack the size
of a honey hive.
A walking stick.
Pockets full of maybe.
A shining, walking
sacred energy.
All day, I feel as if
I might step off
the world. All day
I put my faith
in laughter. All day
I notice how in moments
of terror lives also
the chance
to be extravagant
with my joy.

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Forgive me if, as we wade through
December’s blue shadows,
if, as we pull the wood toboggan
across the basin of field,
if, as we wander through spruce,
as we traverse the crystal petals
of hoar frost, forgive me if, on this most
perfect day when I am so deeply
in love with my girl and my husband
and the day itself, forgive me if
as we cut down the finest,
most symmetrical Christmas tree
we’ve ever found, if in the midst
of beauty and luck and laughter and joy
I also feel inside me the ache
for the boy who would now
be a man who is not
with us here. Forgive me.
It’s all so beautiful. And still
this sorrow. How they mix together
like vinegar and pure water—
completely dissolved into each other.
I couldn’t begin to tell you what it means,
this tear.

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It happened. The tiniest perfect stars
fell from the sky and into the yard.
Dozens fit on a single brown cottonwood leaf.
There were millions of them. Millions!
An uncountable cache of crystalline stars.
When the sun rose, I ran from shadow
to shadow to witness them before they melted,
joy rising with every star I saw.
Within minutes of morning, they were gone,
but no sorrow came from the loss.
There is no name for this kind of love.
All day, it has lingered, the thrill
of bringing my whole heart
to the moment without ever once thinking
of holding anything back.

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Changing Rhythm

 
At the edge
of the field
was the bank
where the boy
used to stand
and throw rocks
for the joy
of the splash
and now
his mom
stands there
alone
sometimes
she throws
a rock,
surprised
each time
when the joy
of the splash
is still there.

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Whatever in me feels sodden,
soiled, weighty, it slips from
my body, as if her laughter
is rain until all that is left in me
is sky.

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There Is This Moment


 
 
with the full moon rising
and a large bird of prey
gliding spirals in the sky
and my husband on my right
my sweet friend on my left
and the two-person band
transforming sorrow into joy
just by singing it in harmony
and giving the song their everything,
and maybe that’s what is ours to do—
to give ourselves wholly to a moment
as if we are the singers and life the song,
so I give myself to the low summer sun
and the dust on my feet,
to the pucker of lime
and the tears of my friend,
give myself to the ache that never leaves
and the relentless beauty that ever arrives,
and the more I give myself to the world,
the more the world rushes in
and says home, home, home,
you are home.
 

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For Easter


 
 
We drop six small,
bright-colored tabs
into six glass cups.
Add vinegar. Water.
And my girl and I
make plaid eggs
and striped eggs
and eggs painted
with feathery strokes.
We sing along to country
songs, and joy colors me
like dawn colors sky,
a beauty so fleeting,
but while it lasts,
it lights the whole world.

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Because it brings her enormous joy,
this pink-petalled flowering quince
that grows just outside
my mother’s back door,
I long to give her a thousand
such quince bushes,
all of them long-blooming,
voluptuous, thornless,
all of them lining her walk.
Though the other part of me
wants to honor how
it takes only one plant
to bring her such elation.
I am instantly stunned
with the wisdom of enoughness,
astonished again at how praise
needs nothing more than a crumb.
Somehow letting go of a thousand
imaginary quince bushes floods me
with a emptiness so great
I fall more wildly in love
with a single pink flower
and the luck-drunk awe of my mother.

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