consciousness of happiness

The heart. What it holds, I witness. Observe emotions that come through. I have a heart, a mind a body. We exist in our world as a witness to these bodies—the anxiety, the fear, the anger, the sadness. They are. They do not define. I reach out and curl my fingers around this, but hold it loosely. I let it slide around knuckles. This consciousness—a witness of myself. Of the cats. Of the sun rising higher in the eastern sky. 

And happiness, observed like a string of lights. Repaired bulbs, fading ones, bright ones. Bulbs with centers of orange and yellow. 

Or sometimes observed as opening tulips, pollen that can dye your skin gold, fragrance that holds the power of first breath. The dilation of pupils. 

Happiness observed like dancing—the movement of bodies and the ability to release new air? 

And the purpose of happiness? To observe others laughing, to hold hands, to feel the elements on your skin, just as they are: wind, rain, sun: no judgement, just completion of experience on earth. From life to death.  Happiness in the ebb and flow of anger, sadness, fear. It is psithurism. It is from the planet that happiness is born. She whispers it into the leaves. And molecule by molecule we may adapt it from the very blue of the gases of her atmospheric womb. 

Children of earth, witnessing it all in one breath.