The flow of happiness must be drunk from cupped hands. It can only be held for a short while. It trickles through our fingers even as we try to grasp it. Happiness flows from wherever we may find pleasure. It runs warm and soft but quickly slips away.
When grief comes, it settles like a frozen block of ice. It numbs the hands that once held happiness. It freezes all it touches. At first, the shocking coldness cuts deep, with piercing pain that brings tears to your eyes and makes you tremble. In time, it numbs our outstretched hands till all that pours into them passes through without any notice. The freeing power of grief. Fortitude may be found in passion. Passion, joy in suffering. Not joy at suffering but joy in the midst of suffering. The willingness to suffer, sacrifice and endure pain for something deeply meaningful. To find purpose in grief is to find the heat source that can bring frozen waters back to life. It is a practise that eludes hard work. It cannot be forced to be, nor badgered into staying. It comes from connection, the connection between the depth of who we are and something beyond the self. Sometimes it can flow from pleasure, but far from hedonism, it requires a fuller engagement of the soul, our innermost part. Joy is a state of being. It may be found in nature, in community, in toil, in creativity. One prerequisite is a kind of vulnerability that exposes who we are to that which eclipses us. It is a re-framing of the world that I think offers a path for hope.
Listening to - Barbers Adagio for Strings - William Orbit