Do I taste a square of chocolate before it glides, prompting a craving for the next piece?

IT came to me by happenstance, that happiness was roaming my house, ready to be invited inside. I never noticed, I never saw it; it was so thin, veiled in onion peels and laundry marks.

That breezy day, Aunt Bella swam into my mind. Aunty lost all sensation in her legs a number of years ago. Have I lost all of mine too? It occurred to my befuddled brain that yes, while she was hardly moving because she couldn’t feel her feet on the ground, I wasn’t going where I wanted to be headed either, so benumbed was I.

Did I feel the breeze, as it washed past me into my house. Hashem sent it today, to break the sun’s dominance and to caress my cheeks. Happiness was in the weather with which Hashem decorated my days. Sometimes He chose dark grey, and the world took on a cozy, protective gloom. Other days the sun shimmered, exposing each ant making its way between the cracks. Cycles were to be noted; the orchestra of sun, wind, air, stars, and elements all coming together to change the weather of the world.

Did I notice my fingers, how they gripped the orange juice bottle as I poured? They rolled dough into a perfect bun. Did I ever look at my fingers, besides when I admired the stone hugging it? They grip and touch, picking up with a perfect grasp. How do my fingers know to close in on a slippery bar of soap with just the right pressure — not too tight that it shoots, not so loose that it slips? There is beauty in fur, as it slips through combing fingers, and in the hair of my child as I brush it neat. How did I never feel the laundry powder when it dusted me, and the flour so fine? My fingers are happiness, in the sensation of cut nails, of holding a tissue, of a little hand in mine.

And where was my nose, that it did not report to me the joys of life? Aroma is the undefined sense, the mystical touch between this world and the next that enters us daintily with no traceable line back to its origin. My floor is washed, and pine, or lemon, or something so fresh — it expands the lung and heart — laces every tile of my home. When a perfume of roses and sea and sky wafted by, did I stop and breathe? Did I notice how tangy the frying onions taste to the nose? When my lilacs blossomed, did I cry, as every day the flower bloomed in my heart again? When the cookies’ aroma come to me, not cramping me up with dough, just wistfully washing over me from the oven’s door, that is joy.

When my eyes saw my image mirrored in my son’s greenish eyes, did I not exult? My kitchen was laid to rest, every utensil in its place, the counters gleaming, the floor bare of human prints and I did not thank and love the world. I marvel at the photographer, who can take a scene and zoom in at an angle that makes the world beautiful. But where are my eyes? When I see that bush of purple flowers, why don’t I focus in on the center of a petal that fades from yellow to white to soft pastel? Must I wait for the camera’s lens to show me the beauty of a curve on a stranger’s face? Are my eyes blind to a stack of pencils, a carriage carrying twins, a smile reaching the eye, a herd of sheep, a ball of sun in the sky?

Do I tune into the nuances of people around me? When my son bounds in from school hungrily demanding food and love, instead of walking, instead of stalking, do I pat him on the cheeks giving him his first sip of connection? When my neighbor wants to be friendly, and we both have time to sit and talk between the stairs, do I cherish the moment? Do I notice how the world is a treat for the taking, every moment of the day? Do I feel the joy of a new birth, the loss of death, the despair of a news article? Am I alive?

A whisper floats to my ear. The energy of a yell vibrates for me to relish. When the raven swoops on my porch to eat I don’t know what — I have swept up everything that might attract him — do I listen to his caws? Does my toddler’s off-note tune jiggle gratitude in me? Do I pulse with music’s rhythm and beat? Do I notice when my husband’s voice is upbeat? And when the air condition’s even drone fills the house with cool air, why don’t I thank? Do my ears hear? They should pick up sound, the nuances, when friends talk among themselves, building worlds with words. My ears report changes, when wind or pelting rain or thunder or fire station bells sound.

And do I ever taste the world, sour, bitter, sweet, and salt and spice? Do I feel the truth of the tongue going dry and harsh when I’m faced with fear? Do I taste a square of chocolate before it glides, prompting a craving for the next piece? Why do I always wait for the last licorice in the bag, to savor? Supper is ready, and warm, and tasty, and nourishing; do I take a bite and let it fill my mouth with goodness? Do I notice when a peach is young, when it develops a rich taste, and when it becomes so sweet and juicy, its color is gone? Do I know the taste of an envelope’s seal, the taste of the smell of bleach? Is my mouth open to take in the world?

Happiness is there. Because I wake up and my clothes are clean. They are soft cotton, and slip on comfortably. The work waits. A pile of laundry at the ironing board, ready to be smoothed, while steam rises to tickle my cheeks. The children patter in pajamas, the hot cereal smells like home. The milk is fresh and full, the bus is bright yellow against green trees, blue sky. The clock ticks away silent hours, the flowers in my window box bloom. My teeth don’t hurt. My fingers hold a steel sponge and wash away breakfast’s grime in soap and suds. The phone shrills, my friend calls. We chat and feel connected, understood.

There is happiness for the taking, not out there, but here. Here, in the crusts of bread littering my table, and the aroma of fresh coffee.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 312)