From bbc83b91bf776ad11787027681f489b04e380343 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Madison Scott-Clary Date: Fri, 10 May 2024 20:35:10 -0700 Subject: [PATCH] update from sparkleup --- writing/post-self/idumea/003.html | 7 +++++-- 1 file changed, 5 insertions(+), 2 deletions(-) diff --git a/writing/post-self/idumea/003.html b/writing/post-self/idumea/003.html index fd50b014a..b5c0302be 100644 --- a/writing/post-self/idumea/003.html +++ b/writing/post-self/idumea/003.html @@ -25,10 +25,13 @@

My astute readers will surely have picked up by now that I am riding that edge here, in these words.

But, ah! This story is not about me. I am not quite overflowing yet, and The Woman most certainly is not. She is reveling in the warmth of sunlight and the dance of bees and the tickling of dandelions against her ankles and the purringly soft touch of friendship.

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The turn away from joy came with the arrival of therapy.

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The turn away from joy was slow and, at first, unnoticeable.

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The Woman did all that she could to hang onto joy whenever it slipped into her life. We all do, do we not? When I find a bakery that serves delectable treats, for instance, I will eat in the tiniest bites I can get away with — nearly crumbs! — just to let the joy of such a treat linger longer on my tongue. The woman did this with her own joy, you see: she would cook these lovely desserts for herself and her cocladists that she might store up joy in carefully sweetened and delicately decorated cupcakes or muffins or cookies or brownies. Joy, it seems, is stored in the chocolate, and so she doles that out to those who deserve joy — and The Woman knows that even she deserves joy.

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But even like me with my little tasty baked treats, The Woman’s joy is parceled out bit by bit to herself and her cocladists and, just like my little plates of carrot cake — I do love a good carrot cake! — there is never an infinite amount, much as she might wish, nor, it always seems, quite enough.

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She hung onto joy and baked her goodies and went for her walks and awaited, with some trepidation, to the regularly scheduled therapy. Once every two weeks, unless she was overflowing, unless she was in pain, unless she simply could not bring herself to go, The Woman had an appointment