The famous actress's memoir had people in it I had gone to school with. It had stories of success. It had big names that were her best friends. Even the lowest moments of uncertainty and failure were more fun and successful than anything I could remember.
But that wasn't what annoyed me. But what annoyed me proved elusive.
So, I did the laundry. That's what Florence always did when things got murky.
And, sure enough, things came out in the wash.
That famous actress was writing joy. Didn't matter if it was the good times, the bad, the failures, the successes... the rejections. She had joy.
Where the hell was joy?
I can count on one or two fingers...
Except...
Well, it happened a long, long time ago. Almost 18 years. When in a tornado of failure I said I would commit to attempting to trying to believing there might be a possibility of... joy.
It was all so last minute, I didn't have time to find the one thing I needed - a special cabinet called a Budsadan - a home for the Buddha.
Rushing home after hours of going from shop to shop, I glanced by the stairwell.
And there it was. A perfect cabinet. Waiting for me.
Tonight, coming back from late-night shopping (because that's when Trader Joe's is empty), I glanced by the stairwell.
And there was Joy.
Where it was supposed to be.
In unexpected corners. Just waiting to be openned.
**
Related Posts:
Mi Butsadan Es Su Butsadan
The Walk to Hope Is a Leap of Faith
The Corners of My Mind
Ode to Food
My Mama Done Told Me
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