[NOTE: This piece is inspired by the poem “I Do Not Order Two Sugars in My Americano” and the prompts from Linda Wagner’s 27 Powers Wild Writing prompts.]

Joy always finds me when I see the egret and the heron wading in the weeds at the shallow edges of the pond. I watch their stillness, statue-like, as they stare into the water for the dart of a small, silver fish. I study the graceful curve of their necks, the jaunty-jolty steps as they stalk their prey along the green edges. How can they see those small fish in that dark, murky water? I admire their graceful take-off when they spread their wide wings and lift off to glide inches above the sunlit water of the pond.

Joy finds me in the soft lapping of the water at the edge of the Lakeshore as I walk around the park or the shore at the church.

Joy finds me in the bright smile and giggles of my three-year-old grandson as he plays with his cars and trucks or wages a dinosaur war with his Nana.

I find joy in hearing and singing those old hymns of faith–and hearing in my head the sound of my father’s baritone as he sang those same hymns when he came home from church and walked through the house to change into his “everyday clothes.” I find joy in singing the hymns we used for his funeral service–even as the tears form and run down my face. (Has it really been nine years since he passed on?)

I find joy in seeing words crawl across the blank page when I write–and write and write more. Joy finds me in the old-fashioned fountain pens even when they spring a leak and my fingers are covering in black ink.

I find joy in hearing the birds sing and chatter outside my window. Joy finds me in the migration of those black birds (whose name I do not know, grackles, maybe?) that chatter and fly in in droves to cover the limbs of the trees and the brown grass each autumn. It won’t be long before they arrive again.

Joy finds me in the cup of hot cinnamon spiced tea served up in my favorite Pioneer Woman mugs. Before I take that first sip, I hold my hand over the cup to let the steam soothe the ache of muscles around the surgical scar. Then I take that first not-so-scalding hot sip and let the cinnamon “burn” across my tongue and down my throat to warm me through and through.

Even when I least expect it, joy always finds me.