I remember joy.

I’m not sure that Fall is my favorite season, but it brings one of my favorite memories.

I grew up in a small college town.  I remember walking to school the first term of my freshman year.  It was sunny and warm.  The leaves rustled around my feet.   The skirt of a brown print Aileen dress (straight from the pages of Seventeen Magazine) lightly bounced with each step.  Kicking at the leaves on the sidewalk I sniffed the smoke in the air and was elated.  Life was good.  I was carrying my books to college on a sparkling autumn day.  I was joyful.

This memory visits me each fall.  Only now have I named the feeling.  “Joyful” wasn’t a word in 1950’s vocabulary.

It’s strange that I have “enjoyed” many things, but the times I have been joyful stand out.  I am sad to be able to count the times I have felt it when I have so much to create joy in my life.

Sitting here at my computer I have thoughts that give me joy.  Visions of moments and people in my life push that feeling into my throat as a smile comes to my face.   The mere idea of my children and grandchildren sends me to a blissful place.   My garden thrills me.  Music definitely provides the soundtrack.  As I type, visions of moments and people appear and I am smiling.

It is all here in my life.  So I want to pay attention.  I’m going to live with the moments that come to me and breathe in and out with the joy.  I want to let it bubble up and fill me instead of moving too fast for it.

The next time you see me I may hug you too hard or gaze at you too long.  I may pause on our walk: listening and watching.  Or I may be the quiet one in the room,  just observing.  That will be me: living with my joy.


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