When I was in a freshman in college, I was assigned a final
paper for my Philosophy 101, class. We
could choose any topic to wrap our heads and words around, but I chose this
one. Somehow I was granted an A+,
probably because, even then, I had a different understanding of it.
I’ve always been anxious – and happy isn’t typically a word
associated with anxiety. You can’t very much be happy while waiting for
something else to go wrong or waiting for the world to fall out from under you,
the carpet ripped… whatever. The best cure for anxiety, in my professional
opinion, is the continuous proof that no matter how anxious you are about one
thing, something entirely different will occur, and prove that pinning down a
particular doomsday outcome is a waste of time.
Still, I do it. It seems part of
my DNA – DNA that can explain the shit out of something but be profoundly
afraid of it.
Why do we say Merry Christmas instead of Happy
Christmas? Perhaps to be happy is to be
merry. And to be disingenuous about
being merry is a lie.
Yet, Honest Christmas isn’t very catchy. So fuck that.
It’s a holiday for kids and a huge stressor for relationships of all
kinds. Perhaps this is why we need to
make it happy. I regret to tell you that
Santa Claus was, in fact, invented by Macy’s.
Rudolph too. It’s documented. Got ahead and look it up, but go ahead and give
and get the shit out of year end deductions too.
I’ve never been a fan of forced fun or holidays, mostly
because I was shuttled between two households, the daughter of divorced
parents, I witnessed a lot of alcoholic and narcissistic bad behavior from the
adults in my life. For some reason,
these occasions overshadow the good ones, which leads me to… Are You Happy New Year?
Facebook feeds are filled with all kinds of spiritual,
philosophical, empowering quotes.
There’s the enumerated gratitude posts, the non-profit, pleading posts,
and the social networking apps response prompted by algorithms that misdiagnose
your priorities, the chain letters that mandate a copy and paste to raise
consciousness… if… you… really… care.
There are ads for online learning meditation, psychological counseling,accredited
athletic training, and doing bigger, better, faster, more in your chosen field
of employ. There are angry political
posts that make no certain impact but deregulated venting of platforms that
ultimately unfriend. Oh, and the passive-aggressive
quotes about karma that assure your nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine friends, that
someone will get theirs… “Theirs” will
not be new shoes or a puppy.
It’s both “look what I’m doing” and “let me see what you’re
doing.” That said, it’s also “look what
I’m doing.” A photography exhibit on my
recent trip to the New York City Public Library, created an entrance of a
large, overhead, angled mirror that stretched the width of the wide doorway
opening. Words on the adjacent entrance wall
read, “Never before have we ever wanted more to see and to be seen.”
This makes us happy.
Super.
I don’t like being asked if I’m happy. Grateful, yes. Happy is some forced fun vacation that
insists I demand, Vaseline smile glee proven by each time in the course of one
year that I change my profile picture to reflect my mood. My family “happy” posts. My “posts.”
My “likes.”
Ewww. It’s true
though.
I’m grateful for my children, my friends, the people who
stick around for what’s easy and not easy.
The people who test me to be better and the people who understand that
love isn’t about passing a test.
And the people who know me won’t ask me if I’m happy because
it’s a really stupid question. They ask,
“Do you like what you’re doing?” They
listen to me complain at times. They
ask, “What are you doing about your anxiety?”
Mostly, they don’t ask.
A lot of the time they just tell me what to do and watch me do
otherwise.
They’ve seen me fail toward success because they… are…
friends. Success or not.
Friends – good friends – don’t wait around for you to be
perfect and whole and to love yourself.
If we all loved ourselves so avidly without any need for others, our species
would have been extinct long ago. Whole
is not without need. Anyone who tells
you that is wrong. It’s the wrong way
our society is headed and there’s evidence of it everywhere in the world where
the expectation that happy is custom made.
Happy is not custom made.
Happy is not perfect. Happy is
the struggle. Happy is the enjoyment of
small moments. Of quiet. Of finding connection with people who seem to
speak the same language. Of failing
miserably and succeeding in the same way, mixed.
My language is one of no platforms other than my own. Looking out from the One World Observatory
and atop the Empire State Building, I think it’s an expansive perspective, and
while it may seem arrogant, it’s not intended to be. Atop, there are certain points amid all the
lights and buildings, let’s say for the visual, that I’m happy about some
things. The Empire State Building is lit
up in Christmas red and green, the weather is far too warm, but my family is
close. Am I happy about the segments where
I struggle but only when I see a small success, and I barely breathe to appreciate
it because there’s more to do? Sort
of. I’m warm but I’m sad all at
once: for the moment I experience comfort
but for the long run, I fear extinction.
Super!
To say, “Yes! Oh,
dear Jesus. I am so happy!” would be a load
of shit that not one person I know would accept from me. It’s not me.
And, it’s not me because I’m rudderless or hopeless or Eeyore, but it’s
me because it’s not the whole story. The
whole story isn’t simple, because life isn’t that way. Am I happy for the plight of Syrian refugees
or the all-world perspective where some find love and wonder in excess while
others commit suicide because that seemed like the only option amid the
happiness oppression that left them alone and misunderstood, the task of being
happy too out-of-reach? They are the
same people, excess or lack. Love or no
love. Stuff or no stuff.
I am grateful for the struggle and for what it teaches me,
even when my face tells another story that won’t lie when I will it. I’m grateful for an always-evolving sense of
self that isn’t always happy because it’s difficult and not without
failure. Not without a lot of failure. With little grace but a lot of trying.
Do I like all of the aspects of myself that are tied into my
life? No. I drive myself into anxious knots being who I
am. Most people need a platform to stand
on. Platforms make me nervous (for more
information see: wake surfing, skiing, any kind of boarding,
balance-while-body-in-motion-anything). My
only platform is words and hoping to connect with people with unique ideas and
ways of viewing a world that is anything but myopic.
THAT makes me happy.
That and three little faces who are presently (as of three days ago when
I started writing this) driving me nuts with their custom-made needs.
Even the Ellis Island of children living in tenements didn’t
jar the sense of entitlement of our country.
Did they say, “Are you happy? Did
their parents ask them, ‘Are you happy?’
Did their fellow immigrants as them, ‘Are you happy?’”
What they did is take a moment upon the event of footing on
common, new ground, to hug and rejoice and cry and laugh and smile, amazed at their
new freedom.
Were they happy?
Shit makes stuff grow.
Those kids from the Ellis Island Museum photography collection did not
look happy but rather dirty and unkempt.
There were a few moments, I’m sure, that captured their smiles. I found one.
It’s delicious but it’s very, very dirty. As in, dirt.
The stuff that platforms growth.
For food.
For life.
To grow.
Happy” is a moment. “Grateful”
is another thing. I am grateful for the
opportunity to struggle and work and enjoy simplicity, most.
Happy is a word. So
is dirt.
And I love words.
And I love dirt.
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