It's not a silent joy. My heart is a noisy place, and peals of inner laughter ring in my spirit. It's a joy of warm dawn after a cold night, when reaching hands that had forgotten how to feel are suddenly caught by hands from another climate, and the chilly darkness wears thin between rays of new sunlight. No, it's not a silent joy at all. It is tender and wild, a world meant to surprise and sweep me away. A world I do not govern or create, but it is for me--and that discovery shakes me to the core.
It is peculiar to me that I have almost nothing to say in this place of joy. It's almost as if anything I could say would cheapen it's exquisite beauty, and I'd rather just be still and watch.
I look up and realize that I've let the silence go on too long. When I search my heart for words, though, it's as if the only things that are really worth saying are kept behind the glass, pressing their faces against the window into the world of words. I don't yet know how to let them out. It's not a silent, manageable joy. It's a joy that silences me.
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