Joy
No, I don’t believe in the state of happiness anymore, although from time to time I do feel happy. I don't pray to God to bring me happiness or get angry at him for not bringing me happiness as I did in my teens.
I rather believe in joy. Small joys, in particular. Such as spotting a chrysanthemum peeping out of the concrete wall, or watching the rain falling on the dark navy hanok roof, or seeing little children cross the streets, or pedaling bicycle back home late at night after a slow, meditative yoga class. In those moments I feel flamboyant. Lighter. And free.
For joy, unlike happiness, knows Han. It does not tell her, “Why are you sad?” with a pitiful stare, or negate her presence out of arrogance. Joy may not welcome Han wholeheartedly, but it still understands that after a while it, too, will fade away like all earthlings. Call it humility. Call it fragility. Whatever it has, however small it offers, touches my heart.
On a cool, peaceful Saturday afternoon, I found joy in many places — spring sunshine, iced coffee, laughter, and a delicious meal. But before three p.m., it left. And soon I found myself sitting alone at a sweltering subway platform, waiting for the train, exhausted. Viscerally I knew it: where joy once resided was now occupied by Han. I closed my eyes, and let her in.
