This morning, I gathered flowers from the garden; weeds really, but they have the prettiest flowers. Purple with yellow inked at the centre, white with pale green hearts, little pink blossoms that have brought the smell of summer into my room.

I had a little note to you all written out. I threw it away not because it was pre-meditated but because I found it hard, for the very first time, to be at ease with the self who wrote it after it had been written. I take care with words and with every thought expressed, I had also let spontaneity to win over caution. But when I was done and I read it to myself, there was nothing to do but to discard it.

Little things about you have come to arrange themselves in my room. They’re invisible yet keep changing places because I don’t like any of these things in any particular order. And when I look at them or hold them in my mind, their shapes and weights alter. I have this notion that this is where the music lives and grows.

This is true of the things I want to give you, too. T. brings me the forest with him. When every part of my back and heart ached, I held his hand and just breathed. The pain is strange and unfamiliar and when I get used to it, I cannot speak to it at all. Then, I leave. I walk somewhere and I live again in passage and I learn to trust myself again and I am a little less afraid of loss.

You have your own gifts of passage, why would you possibly need mine?

This has crossed my mind and the answer is they are not really mine and because I’m happy now and happiness floats.

So much happiness
Naomi Shihab Nye

It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness.
With sadness there is something to rub against,
a wound to tend with lotion and cloth.
When the world falls in around you, you have pieces to pick up,
something to hold in your hands, like ticket stubs or change.

But happiness floats.
It doesn’t need you to hold it down.
It doesn’t need anything.
Happiness lands on the roof of the next house, singing,
and disappears when it wants to.
You are happy either way.
Even the fact that you once lived in a peaceful tree house
and now live over a quarry of noise and dust
cannot make you unhappy.
Everything has a life of its own,
it too could wake up filled with possibilities
of coffee cake and ripe peaches,
and love even the floor which needs to be swept,
the soiled linens and scratched records . . .

Since there is no place large enough
to contain so much happiness,
you shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you
into everything you touch. You are not responsible.
You take no credit, as the night sky takes no credit
for the moon, but continues to hold it, and share it,
and in that way, be known.