Joy, Tacuinum Sanitatis Casanatensis (14th century)
We are nested in our studio bedroom. Three quiet, lost in our private spaces, little Bo's Mario game, Diadem's iPhone Facebook, and this my iMac altar. My precious big son Zen safe asleep downstairs, back in his all-embracing motherland. My daughter Kai, hopefully fulfilled, finding herself in the wilds of the American dream. Here on our mountain, all is so very quiet, as a welcomed warming winter sun lights across my desktop.
I am happy. Not the peaks and valleys of ecstasy and tragedy, the drama of previous life stages, but more a plain of gentle consistent pleasure. A sweet smile greets me in the morning and proceeds my dreams nightly. A soft life of mutual affection, wafting ashore waves of simple wonderment.
I find peace in marriage, my opportunity for paternal generosity, gainfully and gratefully employed, championing youthful vitality into simple life lessons. A hero happily of no great significance.
I am afraid to confess happiness. Afraid to invite the rage of jealous gods and goddesses. Yet there it is, I feel happy. I feel thankful. And I thought you should know before I complained again.