67) Gratitude, and joy
The wind was strong last night. I could hear the sounds from the ocean as I stepped out of the car and came inside. Half the doors in the house spent their evening rattling with the draughts. My tenth anniversary of living in this cottage – so maybe there was celebration in all the clattering. You shall go out with joy… and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands…[1] This morning, I noticed that the last of the leaves had been shaken onto the front garden lawn. All that clapping had shaken off the old and made way for the new.
I slept fitfully – the building full moon might have been partly to blame. Because there’s nothing weighing on my mind. The book has launched. I made it through the first full year with the Lutherans. The car went through another service without any major drama. Maybe it’s when everything settles, and you find yourself exhaling, that you realise how you’ve been holding your breath for too long. And your knees wobble a bit from the exhale and the release of tension. Either that or it’s the full moon. Or the wind. We’re so impacted. Connected to Creation. Even a rock in the sky can keep me tossing and turning into the small hours.
I’ve been thinking about that word joy. The other day my Franciscan novitiate counsellor reviewed my annual report, talked about Albert of Jerusalem and the need for balance in all things, before remarking that he saw the seriousness in me, but not the joy. An imbalance in the scales. I raised it with my professional supervisor who shared my surprise at the comment. I then mentioned it to a friend, but he wasn’t surprised. It makes you wonder. How people can see the same me yet see me so differently.
All three were at my book launch a fortnight or so ago, along with faces from almost every chapter of the past 25 years. I read aloud – stories of the bush and orchids and nature and the beauty of making vows. I would have thought my joy was obvious. Looking around the room that night, my prayer had been a simple one: gratitude for the people and the stories that have populated my book and filled the days of my life; and joy at the completion of a project and the friendly gathering itself.
Gratitude, and joy.
It really was a special evening. The sunset was its own celebration, pink and glorious over the western suburbs. And there was a pale blue strip of ocean from our vantage point up in Mitcham. Together, Dolores and I carried all the boxes of books and wine into the church hall for the launch. And then we watched the room fill up with friends and colleagues – all invited to mark the moment that Fragments would leave the nest and make its own flight into the world. Years of blog-writing and six months of editing had led me to this moment on a Friday night. For all the lead-up, the launch of Fragments was a quiet event – small first steps of a pilgrimage towards armchairs and studies and bedside tables in other homes. My own heart on every page, now making a journey outward. What did Paul say? “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart…”[2]
I told a friend, “My humble heart is in this book” – to which he replied, “Olly, you are in every line!”
Earlier, that same afternoon as the launch, I had found myself a little nervous, so I took a short drive to Manning Reserve and climbed the sandy track to the top of the hill. I walked along the ridgeway to the point where the track gives out onto vineyards and the distant range. The small blue Pheladenia were in bud – just a day or two away from flowering. Harbingers of spring and reminders of the sure return of warmer days. Heralds of joy! It was on that track with its views and its promises of spring abundance, I handed over my anxieties about the evening’s book launch and surrendered the final act into God’s care.[3] I needn’t have worried. Almost every copy from the initial print run is sold. And the reviews have been kind. “A thoughtful and fresh exploration of faith, wisdom and vulnerability,” came the first review from a stranger. To which my response was
Gratitude, and joy.
On the Welsh dresser right now there are cards of celebration to mark the book launch, along with messages of encouragement. I was given the gift of a pen – an encouragement to keep on writing! I still have a fountain pen that my best mate back home gave me one year for Christmas. I mention him in different chapters of the book. And so it was a particular joy this morning to receive a message from him with a photo of my book which had arrived in the post. It’s one thing to write and publish a book and sell it to a crowd of friends, but to write and publish a book and let it be found and purchased from the internet on the other side of the world feels a lot more significant somehow. My first (known) online purchase and delivery was to my best mate. How perfect is that.
Gratitude, and joy.
Since the book launch, I’ve wandered out into the bush five times. The Pheladenia are now flowering and bringing delight as the season rolls on. Even an uncommon pale pink Pheladenia has graced us near Black Hill Conservation Park – new things to see every day now.[4]
The wind was strong last night. I could hear the sounds from the ocean as I stepped out of the car and came inside. Half the doors in the house spent their evening rattling with the draughts. I know there was joy and celebration in all that clattering. The wind knows it. The ocean knows it. This draughty cottage where I wrote my book knows it! My best mate knows it. The joyful chorus of knowing.
I repeated this verse six times in my little book. And I’ll say it again:
For you shall go out with joy,
And be led out with peace;
The mountains and the hills
Shall break forth into singing before you,
And all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.[5]
**
Olly Ponsonby, August 2026
[1] Is 55:12 NKJV
[2] Col 3:23 NIV
[3] 1 Pet 5:7
[4] Lam 3:22-23
[5] Is 55:12 NKJV