Joy's Inspirations 'Round Me Abound

— body language by Weddie Thiên  —

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On the wall of my office it hangs in plain sight,

And it hangs in the living room, left of the light.

Twenty-eight little windows, twenty-eight little faces,

Twenty-eight of the essences life never erases.

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There is Anger and Asking and Wonder and Awe,

There is Silliness pulling the goofiest jaw.

There is Sovereignty caped in a cape of his own,

There is Dancing, and Crying, and Joy fully grown.

There is Gratitude, Playfulness, Rapturous stare,

There is Wildness that runs with the wind in her hair.

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Now a poster like this can be read the wrong way.

You can look at those children and sigh, and then say,

"There is all that I was! There is all that I've lost!

Here's a ledger of twenty-eight losses, and the cost."

And the fountain runs dry. And the poster turns stone.

And the wall didn't do it. That seed was homegrown.

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For the framework that eclipsed them is guarding its ground,

And it fights to the death to keep each of them unfound.

It will take what is offered as proof they're still here

And convert it to proof that they vanished last year!

And it never announces itself as a lie.

It says, "I'm just facing the facts," with a sigh.

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Not a stone for the grave, not a tomb, not a tear,

But a fountain of joy that comes bubbling up here!

Just ask fresh every day what you dare to reclaim,

And the twenty-eight rise as you call out their names.

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So each morning I meet them with curious eyes,

Not with mourning, not memory, not with goodbyes,

But I ask: "Where's the courage I'm willing to spend

To live one of these fuller, right out to the end?"

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For there will be a “cost.” There are fears to be felt.

You might look like a fool. Some blame may be dealt.

You might forfeit some praise, might collect some strange stares,

When you dance in the street and you don’t care who’s there.

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The question's the same every day that I ask.

The answer is new. That's the joy of the task.

One morning it's Anger. The next one is Play.

The next it's Connection, just one face away.

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Not a stone for the grave, not a tomb, not a tear,

But a fountain of joy that comes bubbling up here!

Just ask fresh every day what you dare to reclaim,

And the twenty-eight rise as you call out their names.
 

And it hangs in two rooms, and the rooms are not one.

There's the self that is working, the self that is done.

And I watch to see which of the faces will call,

From the desk, and then which from the couch by the wall.

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And it's big enough, too, that it isn't a block

Of decor on a wall like a print or a clock.

I can meet one small face, one particular child,

Who is Crying, or Peaceful, or gloriously Wild.

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Not a stone for the grave, not a tomb, not a tear,

But a fountain of joy that comes bubbling up here!

Just ask fresh every day what you dare to reclaim,

And the twenty-eight rise as you call out their names.