Happiness. Sticks and stones and earth. Not much more. A slate coloured sky, the promise of spring in the air. The children giddy with joy from playing outside with their friends, unsupervised, in their own world, unfettered from adult intervention. I dig the earth over, work the compost into the old patches, and they sigh with gratitude. A bit like the little one when he finally is offered a drink. His lips purse, his arms and legs jet into the air and kick, and he squeals with pure joy. That’s happiness. Being able to feed, nature or babe, that’s happiness. Lighting a little fire, and even though, it doesn’t quite manage to get going, the smell of the smoke fills the air, fills my heart, is happiness. I am happy, I am happy, I am happy I whisper to myself. And I realise, for the first time, I am not afraid that the mere uttering of the words will wipe out the feeling and bring calamity upon me and upon anything I love. Happiness. Sticks and stones and earth. Not much more. Yet so much more.
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