Where Does Your Happiness Lie?

While wandering the paths of an enchanted

forest, deep into the woods where few ever

venture, I stumbled upon a mystical wooden

creature named Birk. Considered the wisest

of the Guardians of the Seeds, it is said he listens

to the whispers of the soil and knows all that happens

in the wild. The bearded troll bent over, peering

deep into me with dark eyes, and asked:

“Where does your happiness lie?”

Obviously, it lies here, among the poplars

and pines, with the birch and balsam firs that line

the leaf-covered paths trodden by countless dreamers;

where ovenbirds sing their songs while playing hide

and seek up high in the branches. Slowly shaking his

enormous head, a planked arm stretched out toward

concrete and steel, and the machinations of mankind.

He responded with a sadness that rattled my heart:

“When my home is gone, where then will your happiness lie?”

Perhaps it can be found in the gentle embrace

of a lover, by the light of the silver moon where bodies

entwine alongside strewn linen, and words encircle

the heart with tender whispers, passion lighting

up the night with fiery kisses. Once again, my answer

was rebuffed by the sagacious being, who replied

in the gentlest of voices, filling me with the sorrow

of those who have endured love's painful loss:

“When the flame no longer burns, where then will

your happiness lie?”

Scratching my head, I paced around, muttering

to myself, and it came to me as my notebook dropped

to the ground: of course, my happiness will lie within

the magical words scribbled on parchment and sent

into the ether, in the stories that fill my heart with joy

and sadness, peace and chaos, love won and love lost,

stories that take me on celestial journeys through the stars.

Yet Birk, with a paternal gaze, looked at me and asked:

“When your words are lost in the wind, where then will

your happiness lie?”

Perplexed and frustrated, I feverishly searched my

memories for answers, scrolling through Mediterranean

sunsets and the sweet melodies of Gregory Alan Isakov,

the tidal marshes of Martin Johnson Heade's artwork

and that sweet lemon square delight, but it all seemed

temporal, fleeting in the end. The wise troll pointed

toward my heart, where deep quiet lingers

like a soft mist on the waters of my soul's sanctuary.

“It is there that your happiness resides, for though they may try,

no one can ever dig deep enough to strip it away.”