The taste of not enough

If joy arrives suddenly, unexpectedly, do not hesitate. Give in to it. 

The world is often brutal, frequently cruel, and much of it lies beyond redemption. We are rarely wise and even less often kind. But life still possesses a quiet capacity for resistance. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back: that sometimes, something happens which outweighs all the riches or power in the world.

It could be anything, but you will likely recognize it the instant love begins. Whatever it is, do not fear its abundance. Joy was never meant to be a crumb.

Happy days are not meant to satiate; they are too fleeting, too refreshing to ever truly fill the cup. They are butterfly wings against your eyelashes, not the bruising touch that pins you to the earth. They are kites in a high wind, children running barefoot, the sudden heat of a holiday romance.

How does one write about them? 

What is there to say other than: All was well.

The sky was a constant, deep blue; the sun held you like a warm hand on bare skin. Even the rain felt like a blessing, turning the world into a playground that made you giggle. 

Every meal was a discovery, a rhythmic progression of Mmms that deepened with every bite. I remember the merchant: the same hands, the same rhythm. He would stretch the dough so thin you could see the grey of the metal cart underneath, roll it into a layered ball, and fry it to a golden, shattering crisp. Then, he would halve it and stuff it—with a non-negotiable gluttony—full of soft, marinated meat, fresh herbs, and aromatic juices. It was the same taste, the same loop, the same way of melting into deliciousness.

There is nothing to do with happy days but to keep having them. To think we spend our lives chasing, enduring, and dying a thousand small deaths, all to reach for something which, when it finally arrives, offers no grip. 

You cannot hold it. You cannot can it, pickle it, or store it away for the lean seasons.

The only response to a happy day is to live it outrageously. You must be wasteful with it. You must bite into the ripest parts of the day and admit, "I have had enough for now." You have to allow yourself the luxury of gluttony because there is no sensible way to enjoy goodness. You can never reach the rind; the flesh of a good day is forever tender, juicy, and overflowing.

And yet, you never feel full.

I call this the "Taste of not Enough." It is the paradox of joy: it is absolute, total abundance, yet it is only ever as much as your hands can hold.

"Love me now," it whispers. "Only now. Later, I will be a mirage."

It is infuriating. It is unfair. To toil, to dream through seasons of drought and death, to face adversity embedded within adversity and then for the good days to flow so unburdened? To have the impossible suddenly feel like normalcy? 

It is maddening that there is nothing to do but take part in the dance, to flow with the current and not ask it for more than what it is currently giving.

Truly, it is ridiculous.

And yet, I return to it. I return to the table. 

The faucet is open, the happiness is flowing, and I am stepping into the current: curmudgeonly, sour, and utterly, helplessly happy.