Anything Other than Joy

It's winter in the northern hemisphere, including Montreal, which is currently topping out at -3 Fahrenheit in the middle of the afternoon.  It's pretty cold, but I think it looks colder in Fahrenheit; we switched over to Celsius years ago, and temps seem so much more manageable.

I had my weekly French lesson after work tonight, wandered home through a Hades-esque evening, did a whole bunch of chores, devoured eggs on an English muffin, and am currently lounging, a glass of Merlot in one hand, a piece of sea-salted dark chocolate in the other hand and Michael Bublé crooning from my speakers.

Livin' the dream.  I swear.  This is what life is freaking all about.  The galaxies swirling quietly overhead, out of sight but not out of mind, the rich taste of crushed and fermented grapes (born from a planet and nurtured by a star!) on my tongue, and the human voice.  A tiny/enormous miracle.  In this moment, I ask myself how people can fight with each other, be angry with other, decide not to forgive each other.  How can I wake up and decide not to feel anything other than joy.

How can people doubt that everything containing the spark of life, the urge to grow, to thrive, to cling tenaciously to this urge in the face of roiling cosmic extremes, is not full of soul.  It's everywhere.  Every mote is singing to us, the gray grit that we try our best to drive from our tables and shelves is the product of a star, or of a living creature.  Why aren't we all singing, marveling?