ain't sure where I been but I'm here now for damn sure

I've been overwhelmed this week--and, yes, surprised--by the inexplicable joy of simply being. Thank you Wordsworth and, to a lesser extent, Lewis, for the intellectual connection to that interior understanding. If I am being opaque, I am sorry. There is so little of the specific at play here. I think I have been absent a long, long time. And suddenly it is like I have found love, or some elusive treasure in the tide pools. But I can point to nothing that has changed.

There is such familiar physiology between great sadness and deep joy. But one can always tell the difference.

I remember telling my sister that I did not know if I should ever be able to lie in the grass on a warm Sunday and feel that lightness that youth and innocence had in other times bestowed, and now I have no doubt that it should occur a thousand times more in my life. I have been living always elsewhere, and now it seems I have caught up to a present something.

I haven't watered my plant in weeks, and it has never seemed more alive. Even the piece that had seemed to have died has come back to life in a wet forest green. There's nothing I can do to mess this up, I think.

(I have not joined a cult)