“Happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length.” Robert Frost
“Happiness cannot come from without. It must come from within. It is not what we see and touch or that which others do for us which makes us happy; it is that which we think and feel and do, first for the other fellow and then for ourselves.” Helen Keller
Happiness is no certainty. There are people who wait at life’s station expectantly only to one day learn that happiness takes another route. And yet simple forms of happiness do exist. Bringing joy to others must rate as one of the easiest ways to be fulfilled in one’s self. There’s a certain form of happiness, a basic satisfaction that can be deduced from making others happy. The craving to be appreciated is, I think, one of the most understated of human inclinations but beyond what pleasing others may earn one the act of making happy alone is a unique form of happiness. Then there’s the happiness of self, the single-minded pursuit of things the way we’d like them to be. The problem lies in the very real possibility of the grand monarchy-in-the-head being just that, nothing more than a highly convoluted idea- you may never find the world to play according to your standards, and certainly the older you grow there’s a rapidly dwindling chance of the world being more malleable. And other times the twin possibilities of happiness exist in conflict. Choosing the future happiness of others above one’s own supposedly-future happiness pits self against others. There is no doubt that the over-emphasis of the individual has led such a vast percentage of Western society to claim abject loneliness. I don’t want to fall into the group of people who take up yoga because they crave human contact. But I don’t want to give up too big a chunk of me either.
“Happiness is a small and unworthy goal for something as big and fancy as whole lifetime, and should be taken in small doses.” Russel Baker
Have you ever been woken by the sound of a ticking clock? And not just a single clock a chorus of clocks ticking away furiously; cruelly refusing sleep. And listening to the cacophony of time running away ; I’m reminded that the Creator has made our bodies vessels with which to mark time. Our hair, our nails, as soon as we become negligent of time they are the first to let us know that time’s course is indeed charted.
So where to, Darling?
Satellite navigation will take you as far as Darling-but there’s no telling if happiness is safely ensconced there. Happiness is too filmy, too transient and altogether too selfishly driven to occupy the prime real estate as a whole life’s objective. So we mask it over. We call what we seek contentment. Contentment concedes happiness to be fleeting and flimsy. It proposes instead a state wedged loftily above unadulterated joy; a state that pre-disposes you to happiness and melancholy alike. If contentment was a place it would be a room where triumphs, simple joys, moments of bliss and ample reminders of His blessings are bolted to the walls; and through this room’s window is the rest of the world experienced.