The Joyous, Lake in Transitions

Endings ask a particular honesty of your gladness. Two lakes replenish one another — so lean on good friends now, the discussion and shared warmth that keep joy from evaporating when you're on your own. But watch the first wrinkle on the water (the spirit of Tui): wanting. When an ending sets you scanning for something to fill the gap — the next stimulation, the rebound, the comparison that turns every blessing into evidence of lack — equilibrium starts leaking. Don't import joy to numb the loss (line 3): the idle heart welcomes whatever knocks, and marks itself purchasable. Close that door from the inside. Grief and gladness can share a room; what you can't afford is the counterfeit that needs feeding while you're already depleted.

A new chapter deserves genuine delight, not manufactured cheer. Build the joy that's yours regardless of circumstance (line 1): contentment resting on nothing external, wanting nothing from the moment and therefore owning it — this is the steadiest ground a new life can stand on. Keep its structure sound: gentleness outward (openness, play, warmth toward the new) resting on firmness within (your standards, your honesty, a self that doesn't dissolve to fit). Stay sincere when the fresh start tempts you toward easier pleasures and lesser company (line 2): tempted and staying true, the temptation passes without residue. And don't weigh the new chapter endlessly against imagined alternatives (line 4) — the deliberation itself is the unrest. Choose the higher, and peace arrives with the decision.