The Deeper That Sorrow Carves Into Your Being, the More Joy You Can Contain (Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet)

 

 

You can carve with a knife; you can carve with water pressure. Eventually it is the nature and state of what you are carving that matters.

Stone does not turn to wood, and clay hardens when hot. People turn to people, and then turn inside their own space for comfort.

And sorrow becomes the carver while joy watches from afar.

Serpentine or strait, the carving lines map our identity. A platinum-hair woman sitting next to you on a transatlantic flight may notice how deep the lines have become. And in the colicky cry of a baby you find the passage of erased lines only if you allow that cry to become the melody of your discovery. Often, discovery comes before the search, for in the new spaces of your being, the carved paths have already been filled with expectation.

And joy watches from afar, patiently.

Old wooden storm windows let the August rain into your bedroom. But they also let the scent of gardenia flowers to mix with the humidity of that room. Together they carve the invisible space where promises were made the night before.

But now you feel free.

And sorrow stops carving. Not to sharpen its knife, but because the serpentine paths now glitter. Because the wooden storm windows have opened wide and you see the rain.

And joy is not just a distant watcher anymore.

 

October 24, 2026

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2026