when i think of joy, i think of daffodils. and Wordsworth the poet has nothing to do with it. ok.. very little.

i admire the combination of  fragility and durability in the flower. all those months underground, all this accumulation of foodstuffs in the bulb over summer, to sprout this one flower for this brief moment between the snows and the grass.

and i think joy is a lot like that – hidden deep underground for most of the time, accumulating, gathering up the darkness, transforming it into that brief flash the others see.

and then experience becomes the soil the bulbs of joy take root and grow; and overcome, and shoot up towards the sun – to bring a smile and recognition to the world.

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