update from sparkleup

writing/post-self/idumea/003.html

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 <p>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.</p>
 <p>But even like me with my little tasty baked treats, The Woman&rsquo;s joy is parceled out bit by bit to herself and her cocladists and, just like my little plates of carrot cake — I <em>do</em> love a good carrot cake! — there is never an infinite amount, much as she might wish, nor, it always seems, quite enough.</p>
 <p>She hung onto joy and baked her goodies and went for her walks and awaited, with some trepidation, to the regularly scheduled therapy, because I think she knew that, being confronted with recounting emotions of the past or discussing emotions to come, her grasp on joy would be tested. 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 for therapy, after all, and she knew there was good to be had in it, for it had proven its use time and again over the years, and yet it was a time for threshing, for harrowing. It was a time for throwing herself at the Work at one level of removing and watching the chaff fall away and the fruits of her labor lay exposed. It was a time for dragging the implements of tools dialectical and behaviors cognitive through the dirt of her to break up into clods her varied neuroses. </p>
+<p>But as it goes, as it always goes, the morsels of joy meted gladly out soon began to run dry and the sense of happiness that she felt, those truly <em>good</em> days began to fade once more into merely okay. </p>
+<p>It was the day of her appointment that The Woman sat up in her bed, bleary-eyed, and looked around her, around her plain and </p>
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                 <p>Page generated on 2024-05-11</p>