# Birth Of A Joy A joy is born like morning dew— unbidden, glistening, without design. No one can say exactly when or why the heart opened its small window and light poured in. Perhaps it arrived on a stranger's smile, or in the curve of an ordinary thing— a spoon, a shadow, the way rain speaks to the ground. Perhaps it was always there, sleeping beneath the ribs, and someone's laughter was the alarm clock. A joy comes quietly at first, a guest who doesn't announce himself. You find him already sitting in your favorite chair, warming his hands at the fire of your breath. Then slowly—so slowly you don't notice— he becomes the room. The walls learn his name. Your hands forget what they were reaching for before. And you realize: this lightness, this unexplained buoyancy— it has roots now. It is not passing through. It is building a house in the small country of your chest.