In her exquisite poem "Joy Chose You" (below left), Donna Ashworth suggests that joy does not arrive with a fanfare on a red carpet strewn with the flowers of a perfect life. Instead, it sneaks in as you pour a cup of coffee, watching the sun hit your favourite tree just right. Sometimes you're reluctant to receive joy because your house is not as it should be. But joy cares nothing for your messy home, she insists. Joy is supposed to slither through the cracks of your imperfect life.

In his mesmerizing poem "The Station" (below right), Robert J. Hastings describes the idyllic vision of the future we might hold in our mind—some distant station we will reach at the end of a long train trip that spans the continent. "How restlessly we pace the aisles….waiting, waiting, waiting for the station," he says. The station might be any desired goal: a certain age, a new car, a time when the kids are done school or the mortgage is paid or retirement has arrived. "Sooner or later we must realize there is no station, no one place to arrive at once and for all," he counsels. "The true joy of life is the trip, the Station is only a dream. It constantly out distances us."

Over the past 3½ years—through 4 surgeries, 6 rounds of chemotherapy, 25 rounds of radiation, multiple setbacks, and many pyjama days—I found joy. It snuck in as I chatted with a porter wheeling me to surgery or when a nurse shared tears of joy with me as I left the hospital. It arrived in small, measured doses every time I opened MyChart and saw a single digit for my CA125 test. It breathed life into my soul as I reconnected with family and friends, like hugging a tree with roots firmly planted in the ground. It slithered through my imperfect life, surrounding me with love.

"Life must be lived as we go along," advises Hastings. "The station will come soon enough."