Sometimes I feel like I’m just trudging.
Slogging along. Feet sludging through the muck.
Trying to move through the stuck.
And Joy… The word seems to taunt me.
To tell me of what I’m not doing.
Joy isn’t supposed to be like that though.
It’s not something that you can’t feel in the presence of sadness, or grief, or even anger.
It is a stream. A stream of quietness that can flow through you in the presence of all of those things. In the presence even of fear and overwhelmedness and injustice. Joy still sits quietly.
It is a not just a thing that is felt and in some places where it exists it is not *felt* at all.
It simply is. It is. And it stands firm. You see evidence of it sometimes in the most surprising places.
Flowers which have bloomed in cracks of pavement or in parched regions of the desert.
Smiles and exuberance in worlds of abject poverty… Disease and hardship run rampant and resources and possessions do not and yet there are these smiles of joy…
Calm assurance in the faces and voices of those who are sick... those who are facing their mortality head-on. The stream sometimes is most evident there.
When I am trudging is the joy really eluding me? Or am I simply not allowing myself to dangle my toes in the river that flows beneath the surface of my circumstances?
Teach me to choose joy.