When I was young--only old enough to be capable of reading children's books and deeply grateful I had the ability to read them at all--I discovered a book called "A Quiet Place." I read this small book to my four-years-younger sister until it became her favorite. Its lyrical cadence introduced both of us to a new life sound: the rhythm and rhyme of words. Soon "A Quiet Place" became more memory than script, and its familiarity brought union.
Tonight I feel its words creeping back from some distant place. Not because I want to find a place to hide so that I may play pretend and eat an imaginary biscuit while drinking imaginary tea like the young girl of the story; but because I am in such a place--a quiet place--and it has come with an even newer rhythm that's been none of my doing.
For the next order, for the next printing of books to arrive, for assurance that Involuntary Joy does, indeed, have a future beyond its life to this point.
And while I wait maybe I will find an actual quiet place...and have a cup of tea. And a biscuit. Or two.
And maybe, in this new rhythm of life, I'll feel the union of those living their own involuntary joys.