Most Days I Still Feel Joy

Most days I still feel joy.
Subtle, inward, almost unnameable. 
But the relief - it's still there. 

This week, joy has been so soft,
so quiet, that I've almost forgotten her.
I sense she's needed a respite;
to dive gracefully beneath the surface
of ordinary.

So ordinary is all I can see, and the 
plainness of her is unnerving,
sad even.
I feel sorry for ordinary, yet I can't 
seem to face her directly.
There's something in her presence that
frightens me.
Her eyes peer too deeply into 
my soul.
Where I hope she finds substance.

What if ordinary rejects me,
as I often do her?
What does that say of us?
Of the tension between us?

Oh, I must find joy!
I feel so much safer when
she's in the room.
It makes everything - well - 
lighter.
I somehow find value in her eyes.

Sorrow, you ask?
Who mentioned sorrow?!
I don't necessarily want to 
speak of her, as conjuring up
her name is far too risky.

Call me superstitious, but I was
always taught that we draw to us
that which we focus on, so I would rather
not give a line or more to sorrow.

Oh, but I see you've invited her.
So I will respectfully give 
her space... as long as she doesn't
intrude on mine.

Her name is so soft, you may not 
believe her to be so forceful.
But I've watched her - noticed how
she moves. Quietly, sometimes
sidling up to ordinary - or even joy - 
and steals the spotlight.
She knows she is far more pitiful
than ordinary; her eyes deeper, darker.
You can certainly get lost in them
if you gaze too long.

Oh, just look how many lines sorrow
has swallowed!

I search, desperately, for joy or
avoidance or anything that gives
me comfort.

And, then I spot her... she is across
the room, staring tenderly into 
my eyes. Her gaze too strong to
break. And, of course, she is nestled
right there, confidently between 
joy and sorrow.
I accept her presence, her gift of 
certainty, as her eyes caress the
luster of my soul.
And I feel gratitude.

Inspired from a line in a poem by Marie Reynolds: "most days I still feel joy"

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