Isabella woke me up at 4:00 this morning—apparently starving, as always. She’s a creature of habit, and once she decides it’s time to eat, there’s no convincing her otherwise. So I got up, fed her, and crawled back into bed. I managed another forty-five minutes of sleep before she decided that was quite enough for both of us. I’m not entirely convinced she understands that I need to get up and get ready for work. More likely, she thinks it’s simply time for me to be awake… or perhaps she’s trying to trick me into feeding her again.
Either way, she won.
So, I got up, made a cup of coffee and some toast, and settled in for a quiet start to the morning—writing this post and half-watching the news before I have to get ready for the day. It’s not a bad way to ease into things, even if it came a little earlier than I would have preferred.
The good news is that I’m not dreading work today. In fact, I’m actually looking forward to it. I’ll be the only one there, which means no interruptions, no distractions—just the rare chance to focus. Days like that are a gift.
I’ve been working on a project that falls into that strange category of being both time-consuming and genuinely enjoyable: creating a class. It’s currently just a one- or two-day component within a larger course, but I’m also developing a full semester-long course proposal built around it. It’s the kind of work that requires patience and thought, but it’s also the kind I find most rewarding.
Of course, there’s always the possibility that I’ll decide to take advantage of the quiet in a different way—maybe pull out my Kindle and read for a bit. That’s the beauty of a day like today. I can focus on something meaningful… or, if I need to, nothing at all.
And honestly, sometimes that’s just as important.
Here’s an Isabella pic of the week: clearly exhausted from the demands of her early morning schedule, she’s already curled up and getting on with her very busy day—while I get going with mine.
A blue sky full of stars shining in immensity; a bird in love singing in the forest; for atmosphere the aromas of the garden and the orange blossom; next to us the water sprouting from the spring our hearts close, our lips much more, you rising to heaven and me following you there— that is love, my life, That is happiness! …
Cross with the same wings the worlds of the ideal; to drain all the joys, and all the haste that is good; from dreams and happiness back to reality, waking up among the flowers of a spring lawn; both of us looking at each other, the two of us kissing some more, that is love, my life, That is happiness …!
Original Spanish
Un cielo azul de estrellas brillando en la inmensidad; un pájaro enamorado cantando en el florestal; por ambiente los aromas del jardín y el azahar; junto a nosotros el agua brotando del manantial nuestros corazones cerca, nuestros labios mucho más, tú levantándote al cielo y yo siguiéndote allá, ese es el amor mi vida, ¡Esa es la felicidad!…
Cruza con las mismas alas los mundos de lo ideal; apurar todos los goces, y todo el bien apurar; de lo sueños y la dicha volver a la realidad, despertando entre las flores de un césped primaveral; los dos mirándonos mucho, los dos besándonos más, ese es el amor, mi vida, ¡Esa es la felicidad…!
About the Poem
Today is Cinco de Mayo—a day that, in the United States, often takes on a life of its own. While it is frequently mistaken for Mexico’s Independence Day (which is actually celebrated on September 16), Cinco de Mayo commemorates the Mexican victory over French forces at the Battle of Puebla. In Mexico, it is a relatively modest holiday, but here it has become a broader celebration of Mexican culture.
So today, I wanted to turn—not to the noise of celebration—but to something quieter and more enduring: poetry. Specifically, the work of Manuel Acuña, whose words capture a simple, luminous vision of love and happiness.
There’s something striking about how simple this poem is—and how complete it feels.
Acuña doesn’t describe wealth, success, or achievement. There’s no mention of status, ambition, or even permanence. Instead, happiness is found in a moment: a sky, a bird, the scent of orange blossoms, water from a spring, two people close enough that their hearts—and then their lips—follow each other.
It’s deeply sensory, almost immersive. You can feel the air, smell the garden, hear the bird. And in the middle of it all, love isn’t something abstract or distant—it’s immediate, physical, and shared.
What I find most compelling is the second half of the poem. After soaring through “the worlds of the ideal,” the speaker returns to reality—not with disappointment, but with joy. They wake up among flowers, still together, still looking at each other, still kissing.
Happiness, then, is not escape. It’s not found in leaving the world behind. It’s found in returning to it—with someone beside you.
There’s also a quiet universality here. Though written in 19th-century Mexico, the poem transcends time and place. Anyone who has loved—truly loved—recognizes this vision: the feeling that, for a moment, the world narrows to just two people and expands at the same time.
On a day like today, when celebration can sometimes feel loud or commercial, this poem offers something gentler. It reminds us that happiness is often not in the spectacle, but in the stillness—in shared moments that feel, however briefly, like eternity.
“La felicidad” is a lyric poem that reflects the Romantic sensibilities of its time—lush imagery, emotional sincerity, and an idealized vision of love. The natural world plays a central role, serving as both setting and metaphor: the sky, the bird, the garden, and the spring all mirror the vitality and purity of the lovers’ connection.
The poem also moves fluidly between dream and reality. The speaker imagines soaring through “the worlds of the ideal,” yet ultimately grounds happiness in lived experience—waking, seeing, touching, kissing. This duality reflects a broader Romantic tension between aspiration and reality, suggesting that true happiness lies not in choosing one over the other, but in holding both together.
Its refrain—“ese es el amor, mi vida, ¡Esa es la felicidad!”—anchors the poem emotionally, reinforcing the idea that love, in its simplest and most immediate form, is the essence of happiness.
About the Poet
Manuel Acuña (1849–1873) was a Mexican poet and playwright associated with the Romantic movement. Born in Saltillo, he studied medicine in Mexico City, where he became part of a literary circle that included some of the most prominent writers of his time.
Though his life was tragically short—he died at just 24—Acuña left behind a body of work marked by emotional intensity, lyrical beauty, and a deep exploration of love, longing, and existential reflection. He is perhaps best known for his poem Nocturno a Rosario, a deeply personal and melancholic work.
“La felicidad,” by contrast, shows a different side of his voice—one that embraces joy, intimacy, and the quiet completeness of love. Even within his brief life, Acuña captured both the heights of happiness and the depths of human feeling, which is part of what continues to make his poetry resonate today.
It’s Monday again—May the Fourth… Star Wars Day. There isn’t much excitement planned this week. In fact, according to my schedule, there’s no excitement at all, which can be a good thing. Sometimes a quiet week is exactly what’s needed—a chance to catch your breath, settle into routine, and simply move through the days without too much fuss.
“And now faith, hope, and love remain, these three, and the greatest of these is love.”
—1 Corinthians 13:13
There is something profoundly grounding about these words from 1 Corinthians. In a world that often measures worth by success, status, or acceptance, the Apostle Paul reminds us that, in the end, only three things endure: faith, hope, and love—and the greatest of these is love.
For LGBTQ+ people, this truth carries particular weight. Too often, we have been told—explicitly or subtly—that we must earn love, prove ourselves worthy of it, or change who we are in order to receive it. But 1 Corinthians 13 dismantles that notion entirely. Love, as Paul describes it, is not conditional. It is not earned. It is a gift—and one that reflects the very nature of God.
Paul writes: “If I speak in the tongues of humans and of angels but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal” (1 Corinthians 13:1). In other words, no matter how eloquent, faithful, or outwardly “righteous” we may appear, without love, it is empty. Faith that excludes, condemns, or harms is not aligned with the love Paul describes.
He continues: “Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude” (1 Corinthians 13:4). Imagine what it means to apply this not only to how we treat others, but how we treat ourselves. Many LGBTQ+ individuals carry wounds—shame, rejection, internalized doubt. But the love God offers is patient with our healing. It is kind to our fears. It does not shame us for who we are.
“It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable; it keeps no record of wrongs” (1 Corinthians 13:5). How different this is from the voices that keep score—of sins, identities, or perceived failures. Divine love does not tally our worthiness. It embraces us fully, as we are.
Perhaps one of the most beautiful lines is this: “It does not rejoice in wrongdoing but rejoices in the truth” (1 Corinthians 13:6). The truth of who you are—your identity, your capacity to love, your place in this world—is not something to be hidden or denied. It is something to be rejoiced in. You are not a mistake. You are not outside the reach of grace. You are, in fact, a reflection of it.
Paul continues with a vision of love that endures: “It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends” (1 Corinthians 13:7–8). In a world where relationships, institutions, and even faith communities may falter, this promise remains: love—true, divine love—does not fail you.
And so we return to the closing verse: “And now faith, hope, and love remain, these three, and the greatest of these is love.” Faith sustains us. Hope carries us forward. But love—love is what defines us, what connects us, and what reveals God most clearly.
Where have you experienced love that reflects God’s patience and kindness? And where might you need to extend that same love—to yourself or to others?
May we rest in the assurance that we are created in love and for love, seen through a compassionate and gracious gaze that is patient, kind, and without condemnation. In moments when judgment—whether from others or from within—tries to take hold, may we remember that love keeps no record of wrongs and does not insist on its own way. And as we move through the world, may our lives reflect that same enduring love—one that bears, believes, hopes, and endures all things, a love that never ends.
Joe
The Closet Professor 