The Wine of Small Moments: A Meditation on Joy

Listen, O friend who walks the path of wonder,
I have discovered the secret tavern
where joy serves itself in cups
so small they fit in the palm
of an ordinary Tuesday morning.

The Beloved whispers through steam
rising from my coffee cup:
"See how the cream spirals inward,
creating galaxies in your ceramic universe?
This is how I dance through your bloodstream,
this is how eternity swirls
in the mundane miracle
of your first conscious sip."

What brings me joy lately?
Everything and nothing,
the way a moth finds flame
without understanding fire,
the way my heart finds light
in the most unlikely places—

In the grocery store aisle
where an old woman counts coins
with the reverence of a priest
counting prayer beads,
each penny a small devotion
to the arithmetic of survival,
and I think: this too is worship,
this too is the Beloved
teaching us to value
what we have been given.

The cat stretches on the windowsill,
her body a prayer written in fur and sunlight,
and I learn again the ancient art
of being present without purpose,
of existing without explanation,
of finding the sacred
in the simple act
of warming bones
against glass that holds
the world at bay.

My friend calls unexpectedly,
her voice carrying laughter
like a merchant carrying spices
from distant lands,
and I remember that joy
is not a destination
but a traveling companion,
appearing suddenly
in the marketplace of conversation,
perfuming the air
with the scent of recognition.

What brings me joy lately?
The way bread rises
in the darkness of the oven,
yeast working its quiet magic
while I sleep,
transforming flour and water
into something that feeds
more than hunger—
feeding the soul's need
for transformation,
for proof that ordinary things
can become extraordinary
when touched by invisible hands.

The rain arrives without invitation,
drumming love letters
on the roof of my solitude,
each drop a word
in the language of renewal,
and I understand suddenly
that joy is not about
deserving or earning,
but about opening
the door of the heart
when the Beloved knocks
disguised as weather.

In the bookstore, I find
a volume of poems
fallen from its shelf,
opening to exactly the page
my soul needed to read,
and I think: this is how
the universe conspires
to remind us we are loved,
this is how the Beloved
leaves breadcrumbs
for the hungry heart
to follow home.

What brings me joy lately?
The way my mother's voice
still carries the echoes
of lullabies she sang
when I was small enough
to believe in magic,
and how I realize now
that magic was never
about believing—
it was about recognizing
what was always there,
hidden in plain sight
like joy in the folds
of ordinary days.

The stranger on the bus
shares her umbrella
without being asked,
and in that moment
I taste the wine
of human kindness,
sweet and unexpected,
proving that we are all
secret angels
wearing the disguise
of rushing to work,
of being too busy
to notice the divine
passing in the aisle.

My houseplant grows
one new leaf overnight,
and I am reminded
that patience is not
about waiting for joy
to arrive,
but about witnessing
the slow miracle
of becoming
that happens
when we're not looking,
when we're sleeping,
when we're busy
being human.

What brings me joy lately?
The way my own reflection
surprises me in storefront windows,
not because I am beautiful
but because I am here,
because I am walking
through this world
with eyes that can see
wonder in the arrangement
of clouds,
with ears that can hear
the sacred hiding
in the sound of buses,
in the laughter of children,
in the silence between
heartbeats.

The candle I light
for no reason except
that darkness deserves
to be softened,
and I understand
that joy is not
about reasons
but about the unreasonable
generosity of existence,
the way light gives itself
without asking for payment,
the way love flows
without demanding
a return address.

In the evening
I walk without destination,
and every step becomes
a prayer I didn't know
I was praying,
every breath a verse
in the poem
my body writes
about gratitude,
about the simple
astonishment
of being alive
in a world that sparkles
with unnamed graces.

What brings me joy lately?
The recognition
that I am both
the seeker and the sought,
the question and the answer,
the empty cup
and the wine
that fills it,
the dancer and the dance
spinning in the tavern
of this present moment,
drunk on the ordinary
wine of being
exactly where I am,
exactly who I am,
exactly when I am.

Listen, O friend,
the Beloved is always
serving joy
in portions so small
we might miss them
if we're looking
for grand gestures,
waiting for dramatic
revelations,
when all along
the divine comedy
is playing out
in the space between
one breath and the next,
in the pause
before the heart
remembers to beat,
in the eternal instant
when gratitude
blooms like a flower
in the desert
of our busy minds.

Come, let us toast
with cups of morning coffee,
with glasses of rainwater,
with the wine of small moments
that intoxicate us
with the beautiful
ordinary madness
of being human,
of being here,
of being now,
of being joy
disguised as ourselves
discovering joy
disguised as everything else
in this tavern
we call life,
where the Beloved
is always pouring,
always serving,
always whispering:
"Drink deeply,
my friend,
drink deeply."