Back from Oz

I've been thinking a lot about joy lately, about the things that make me happy, making mental lists: Getting mail. Selecting the perfect gift for a friend. Laughing with others. Laughing by myself. I like to read. I like alone. I like together. I like writing, picking and choosing my words. I like being stretched out in my own bed after a long day. I like the snoring lump next to me. I like tidy. I like listening to music. I like my big taking-over-the-house plants, fresh inside from a summer outside on the deck. I like a wine cooler in the evening, and my own freshly ground coffee in the morning. I like peaches. I like conversations with strangers. I like crisp ironed shirts and jeans. As I mentally compiled my list, I realized that, really, there is an awful lot that does make me happy. I also realized that none of it is unattainable. It's all present in my life, ready to be savored, ready to be enjoyed. Like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. I've woken up to discover that all I was looking for is right in front of me. I feel a little stupid for losing track of it.