When happiness makes its rounds back to me again, I lean into it. I don’t mean marginally happy. I mean the kind of joy that stops you in your tracks and halts any action that was moments ago needed, for one thing, or another. And there you stand, sit, or lay, looking at a blade of grass with the sun shinning and the wind blowing just enough to whisper your name as you tilt your head in an attempt to catch the message.
It was a stone like any other stone except it had a mouth and spoke of pine needles and quantum therapy and about how a few fingers could cross the world if only for eyes to see and a heart to feel It told about how the heavens rained down so hard that the stone’s eyes were worn away and while it admitted it never had fingers, it felt it nearly could have while sadly its soul drifted away, quickly even, then slowly as the rain lessened Eventually the stone lay still with a bit of sun and less self and more thoughts with less sight until it was found by a frog hopping around laughter lit by courage and carried by a young girl wearing a yellow hat She dabbed the stone with a dry towel and said