A couple of days ago, a prompt for mindfulness I ran across instructed me to think of a person in my life who brings me joy. Upon sober (and mindful!) reflection, I can honestly say that there isn’t one. But I’m not convinced that this is a problem. It all comes back to my personal relationship with, and definition of, joy.

Unlike more common emotional states that I frequently enjoy, such as contentment, happiness, excitement, optimism, peace, or good cheer, joy is deeper, more dangerous, and wilder. Joy carries with it an edge of fear, and danger, and a sense of impermanence. Joy is a glassy blade that cuts to the quick and lets air and light into the dark places while you’re still bleeding and raw. Joy requires risk, thrives at the edges of competence, and is way beyond comfort.

My current life is pretty settled. My basic day is built on routine. My sources of joy, right now, come from reading poetry, from good writing, from my experiences of nature. There are no people, right now, who take me to that vivid, dangerous, intimate edge and catch me mid-leap, heart pumping with exhilaration, caught between falling and flying.

I look forward to the next relationship, the next adventure, the next great challenge that brings me joy. But it’s okay to be settled, to have routine, to preserve my health, and maintain my garden, and raise my child in contentment and good cheer. For right now, it feels exactly right for me.