Good Enough

"Happy?" I ask. He smiles as if guilty of something but only says, "Heh," a kind of grunt with raised eyebrows, which I now know means "abbastanza," good enough, the highest degree of happiness he can allow himself to experience. Italians are suspicious of American exuberance.

Excerpt from Blood, Bones & Butter
by Gabrielle Hamilton

Hopefully we can all allow ourselves more.

 

Unbecoming

This year ... this year, I hope for less. I hope to be less, to tear down whatever it is that I've become and perhaps, in time, rebuild. This year, I want for only the smallest and simplest of enjoyments. Anything more would be too much.

I fear that I've become someone who's too negative, and I don't want to be that person. I want to bring relief to friends and family. I'd rather be a source of happiness for those that I care for. I want to make a point of noticing the things that I love more often than the things that I don't. I want to enjoy the littlest of things as much as I possibly can.

This year, I hope for less. But I think, in the end, it may be more fulfilling.

 

What Are You Being?

At the supermarket the other day, I overheard a conversation between a father and his little son. The boy sounded like he was whining about something.

"Are you being a bad boy?" the father asked.

"Um been hobby," it sounded like the boy said.

"Hm?" asked the father. The boy repeated himself, and the father asked for clarification. "You're being happy?"

"Ya. So hobby," whined the boy.

"That's good," said the father. "You be happy."

It was an odd exchange, I thought. It's an odd thing to say that you're being. I'd like to say that I'm being happy; instead, I just whine.

 

Black & White

Today I learned a new word: Manichean. It's defined as the tendency to see things in black or white. There are those who would use this word to describe me.

I'm told that things are either good or bad for me. Either on or off. That it's always all or nothing. That there's no negotiating or compromising with me. If I can't have everything just so, then I'll forgo it altogether.

While it's true that I have these tendencies, I wouldn't describe them in such simple terms. I see things in vivid colors, and not just two. When I feel a certain way, that feeling has weight. It has substance. It has characteristics and properties that allow it to do things to my soul.

A feeling can be fashioned into many different weapons. A feeling can also become a vessel that transports me to different levels of bliss. Is there an in-between? Certainly. The in-between is like the din of everyday life. There is no such thing as silence. My poles are like the difference between elevator music and joyful laughter. Like wanting to puke my guts out versus hungering desperately for something. The in-between isn't necessarily a place of indifference -- but it's not something to strive for, either. It's a place void of strong desire. If all I meant to be was carefree, then the in-between is where I would go.

And honestly, sometimes I think that might be the way to go. Why not live in the gray twilight? It's certainly easier than either wanting or rejecting wants. Maybe just being accepting is the path to true happiness.

But that -- to me -- is like not wanting anything. And what kind of way is that to live?

Yes ... okay, I see how this could be construed as a black and white view. Manichean: That's me.

 

To Be Complete

Everyone is broken. Each of us has been shattered by life in some way or another, crushed or wounded beyond repair. A part of me is comforted by the broken parts in others. Somehow it helps to know that I'm not the only one, and I guess looking for those broken parts in others has become automatic for me. Rarely do I come across exceptions, and it's difficult to trust that it's not there in some people.

There is one couple whose broken spots I still haven't located. I've known my boss and his wife for more than eight years, for example, and they still seem complete in a way that others are not. I've seen them stressed and angry and I've seen them bicker, but they work it all out. Their lives are what normal should be. They're more normal than normal -- they're beyond normal, super-normal, perhaps. They're both funny and popular and they always turn the things they say into the right things, even when they're not. Their lives seem touched by fortune and untouched by whatever it is that breaks the rest of us. They don't let the world bother them too much. I must be missing something, though, even after all this time. I mean, is it possible for anyone to pretend that well, and for that long?

Being broken isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's just that I sometimes find myself wishing I were whole. The scars aren't what make us incomplete; it's the broken parts, the gaps and poorly glued-back-together pieces that ruin us. To be whole, I would have had to withstand the crushing forces, to beat them or, at the least, not surrender to them. I don't want to be fragmented. I want the choices I face to be clear. I want my intentions to be focused. I don't want to waver or hesitate at the precipices inside my broken self.

See, to be whole isn't to have it easier; it's to have certainty about who you are. With certainty comes a kind of power and freedom: The kind of power that allows you to be deliberate without faking it, and the kind of freedom that protects you from all of the wondering and questioning about potentials.

I imagine how much more straightforward life would be if I were whole. And then I wish there were a way to repair myself.

 

Noticing As They Go

A question that I often ask myself, and just as often fail to answer, is: What am I doing with my life? I recall that I never planned to live this way. If it was ever part of the plan, then it was supposed to be a small part, something to help get me to the place where I really wanted to be. Instead, I feel like I've fallen into the same trap that everyone falls into. I've become too comfortable with the rut that I'm in; you could even say that I'm fond of the rut.

And then I remember that this life is temporary, and it forces me to take a closer look at the rut I'm in. If I continue to cling to my current lifestyle, then the majority of my days will take the shape of the office that I sit in and the commute required for me to get there. My experiences will be mostly limited to whatever time I spend at the office desk, pounding out code fragments that are largely meaningless.

What if I were to say goodbye to this rut, though, and make drastic changes? What kinds of things would I do instead? Here are some scenarios that come to mind:

I would find myself a cheap house or cabin, a fixer-upper in a great location (on the beach, or beside a lake in a secluded spot in the mountains, etc.), something that I could buy with cash. I'd find myself some part-time work (manual labor or something creative, woodworking or farming or brewing beer) or work that I could do out of my own house. I'd write. Maybe my writing would become my work. I'd spend a lot of time outside, even if it was just reading in the hammock on my back porch. I'd swim. I'd boat, probably on something rickety and old. I'd keep a vegetable patch and maybe do some fishing. I'd mostly pretend that the rest of the world didn't exist, except for those times when I hopped in the car to take a road trip or to visit a local saloon or bookshop. Perhaps I'd occasionally teach a class at the community center, something about computers or literature. Sometimes, my road trips would have no definite end; I would just keep going from one small town to the next, stopping for a few days here and there whenever a place seemed particularly charming. Now and then, I'd drop in unexpectedly on friends and family.

Okay, honestly, I don't know if this dream scenario wouldn't end up being just another kind of rut.

I suppose the crux of the matter is that I don't want to be in a position to allow my days to slip by without my hardly noticing; I want to notice them going! I don't want to spend the majority of my life in service to something else unless it's something I care about intensely. I don't simply want to sustain my life from day to day; I want to be actively creating it! Every day.

So I guess the question is: Can I do this without making drastic changes?

 

Trust As Gift

I once thought (and perhaps still do) that trust was just another word for believing in the truthfulness of someone. I've come to see that this isn't how people use the word, though.

Often for people, trust only means agreeing not to worry about the truth. Not worrying, in my mind, always means not caring. To use a writer's phrase, it means suspending your disbelief. Suspending your disbelief means allowing fiction to rule. It means being open to fantasy. In practical terms, it means acting "as if" you believe something is true.

The problem here is that people tend to forget that they're acting after a while and start to believe the act instead of the reality. On a barely-related note, the same can be said for happiness. People say: If you act happy, then you'll be happy; if you smile and laugh, then you'll feel better. I say: These are just ways of forgetting about what we really feel. We forget that we aren't happy, which is probably OK (and maybe even good enough), but the mistake is that we think we've replaced what we've forgotten with real happiness. Likewise, in the case of trust, we trade our suspension of disbelief with what we come to think of as true belief. This, also, is a mistake, I think.

When we allow ourselves to do this, trust becomes a gift. We don't get anything in return for it; in fact, we shouldn't even expect to. In this context, saying "I trust you" is like saying "I'm giving you the ability to hurt me, but I hope you won't do so." Our trust may be appreciated, but it's possible (even likely) that there is no basis for it whatsoever. A person doesn't have to earn it. Even when we have reason not to trust, we still give this gift, anyway. I don't know why. Maybe we just don't want to care. We don't want to worry. Maybe we want to suspend our disbelief. Maybe we prefer our fictionalized versions of reality.

 

Happiness In Another Universe

I've just finished reading an immense novel by Neal Stephenson called Anathem. It's an interesting story that takes place in an alternate cosmos with characters who use words not known in our own cosmos (if I ever find myself in that particular universe, I am now fluent in their language). In addition to science fiction, there's a lot of philosophy in the story dealing with things such as knowledge and where it comes from, as well as how the acquisition of knowledge may alter everything else. And something I particularly liked about the story was the existence of secluded places (like convents minus the religion) where characters spent their entire lives largely devoted to the study of science, math and philosophy. I wouldn't mind living like that, I think.

There were also repeating themes in the story related to various methods for finding happiness. As an example, there's a chemical called "allswell" which, if you ingest it and have enough of it in your system, will make you feel good in general. In my mind, I equated this made-up chemical with real-world habits like drugs, television and fast food. It wasn't a huge leap to make -- in the story, characters referred to the difference between working for your happiness and obtaining it the easy way, i.e., by some type of shortcut. Here's a snippet found early in the novel:

We moved on across the pavement slab. "Look," I said, "it's been understood at least since the Praxic Age that if you have enough allswell floating around in your bloodstream, your brain will tell you in a hundred different ways that everything is all right --"

"And if you don't, you end up like you and me," he said.

I tried to become angry, then surrendered with a laugh. "All right," I said, "let's go with that. A minute ago, we passed a stand of blithe in the median strip --"

"I saw it too, and the one by the pre-owned-pornography store."

"That one looked fresher. We could go pick it and eat it, and eventually the level of allswell in our blood would go up and we could eventually live out here, or anywhere, and feel happy. Or we could go back to the concent and try to come by our happiness honestly."

Sounds like happiness in an alternate cosmos is not much different from happiness here. If only for the fact that the story dealt with matters like these, I would say that I enjoyed the book (although, because of the length of the novel, I do wonder whether the author was using some sort of allswell himself). Still, it was a thought-provoking story all around.

 

Even If They Don't Know It

Sometimes I wonder if the people around me have a better idea of how to live than I ever will. I see people who have smiles on their faces every day and I wonder: Are they happier than the rest of us? I hear snatches of conversation and listen as people laugh heartily at what seems to be the silliest things and I wonder: Are they soaking up more enjoyment out of life than the rest of us? I notice those who are seemingly unconcerned about appearance and uninhibited with what they say or do, and I wonder: Are they more in tune with what's important and what's not?

Maybe life doesn't have to be as meaningful as I'd like it to be, and maybe I'm missing out by trying to create and look for meaning in it. Maybe it's better not to complicate life any more than I have to. Maybe others have it right, even if they don't know it.

 

On Spring & Where To Be Happiest

Excerpt from "A Moveable Feast", by Ernest Hemingway:

When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.

I don't think I'm one of the few who is good as spring itself, but I hope not to be a limiter, either. Also, I like this imagery of too many happy choices. Isn't that like any new beginning?

Happy Spring!

Some Questions Are Heavy Wrenches

For lunch yesterday, I ate a Reuben sandwich on dark rye at a favorite place in the nearby Pike Place Market. I was sitting at a counter, oblivious to the customers seated beside me, when one of the sandwich makers confronted all of us with a question.

"Are you happy?" he asked.

I looked up at him. While I was rationally aware that his query was meant to be a simple one, applicable only to the product he'd made for us, my mind still fumbled for a few moments in search of an honest answer. It's a big question that gets tossed around as if it's not, and my reaction to it - almost every single time - is like having a motor wrenched to a temporary halt. Seriously, if you ever fight me in hand-to-hand combat and you want to buy yourself a few moments of time, just distract me with this question. There are very few times when I've ever been able to answer this question without hesitation - with a simple "yes" or "no" - and yesterday was not one of those times.

In the end, I simply answered the question by nodding; after all, I didn't feel comfortable engaging in a long and deeply personal conversation with the lad. But, for the rest of the day, I heard the echo of that wrenched motor and wondered what form an honest answer might have taken.

People should be more careful with their questions.