To be fair, I know the words for struggle and loneliness didn't come right away either. I wrestled with them and birthed them. I sat with them while they appeared, like old drawings on a foggy mirror.
I just know joy feels like a warm hand between my shoulder blades, in the exact spot that makes me lose my train of thought (but who needs thoughts anyways). I only know that "I can't wait to see you" sounds a lot like a melody, one that is loud enough to drown out doubt.
When things are good the choice is easier. Light over heavy, forgiveness over resentment, optimism over worry. When things are good I don't mind that I'm too tired to pop up into crow pose. I don't bristle when Henley is jumpy, because Henley needs love too. When things are good I am only mildly annoyed when I run out of yogurt mid-week.
Sunrise on Lake Michigan
Byron Katie, knower of all things, has said that pleasure is an attempt to fill yourself, and joy is what you already are.
Maybe that's why I can't articulate it. I just know I feel more like myself than I have in a long time.
