This is how joy is born:

Hard labor, long contractions, fast breathing, sweat on your hot brow.

Sometimes with a long sigh and a gentle push.

Other times:  Joy hides in twisted covers and springs on you as you drag your weary body from the depths of a wicked nightmare.

Joy lurks in the dingy alley and slides out from the debris piled near the dumpster by the night watchman who kicks a box into the corner.

Joy releases itself as you raise your cramped arms and let your muscles reach for the wind.

This is how joy is born:

Two women, a decade apart, with sons of the same age, who have taken life paths in many ways different but in some ways identical, sit in porch rockers on a Sunday afternoon and talk for hours about their loves, their families, their challenges, and their dreams — pipe and otherwise.  They meet as acquaintances, they leave as members of the same tribe.

It’s the sixth day of the thirtieth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

This is Rebecca Wirth (right) and her mother. I met Rebecca two years ago and we’ve been correspondents via Facebook but hadn’t seen each other until she came to our Friday art reception. Her visit to the Holmes house yesterday enriched my life immeasurably.