Joy arrives first in the body,
movement that reminds the muscles
what they were made for.
A clean strike, a true arc,
the brief hush before the ball flies.
The leap from rock to ocean,
instant surrender
into the cold, renewing arms
of something deeper than thought.
There is joy that sparks
and joy that settles.
The same water teaches both.
Waves lapping the shore,
slower, steady, infinite,
a joy that does not ask for effort,
only attention.
It renews the breath.
It says: not everything needs fixing.
There is an evolutionary joy
in watching children at play,
my own, and now our granddaughter,
simply being alive.
Curious. Expressive. Becoming.
Meaning forming in real time,
unscripted, unhurried.
Trusting that each will find their way
with their own irreducible essence.
There is joy in harmony
with Mary,
when thirty-five years of marriage
feels less like arithmetic
and more like alchemy.
No edge. No tension.
Just connection.
Familiar,
and still surprising.
There is the popcorn joy of ideas,
the mind catching fire,
connecting dots,
to build, to birth, to become.
And alongside it,
the joy of sharing energy,
lightness, and laughter.
And then there is quiet joy.
Reading. Writing.
Wading through words.
A calmer sea than the idea machine,
but just as alive.
Here, thoughts slow enough
to be tested, shaped, softened.
Joy is spark and stillness,
motion and meaning.
It is the privilege
of moving among people
young and old,
Black and white,
rich and poor—
embracing the full spectrum
of what it means to be human.
