A History of Happiness

In response to Claudette’s Writing Challenge #13:  It’s In The Details
http://claudetteellinger.wordpress.com/

 Someone recently told me that she wanted happiness in her future. I replied that I get a bit fudgy when it comes to that word. It means so many different things, and those things change, seemingly sometimes from one moment to the next. So, I decided to write a history of the different things it has meant to me over the years.

There was a time, when I believed that marriage and having children would be, must be, the ultimate happiness. I was wrong, but it took an awful lot of time to figure that out. There were other things on the horizon while I was unknowingly waiting to know that.

Like crafts. I believed that if I decorated the walls of my house with hand-made projects, that would make me happy. I kept myself busy for years doing things like macrame, embroidery, crocheting, flower-arranging, drawing and painting, and lots more. I wanted my home to reflect my person, and to some extent it did. I also discovered that I was a very creative individual, but beautiful things don’t necessarily make for happiness.

Then there was music and learning how to play the guitar. That was hard because I didn’t start until I was thirty. I love music and although it was satisfying and gave me contentment at moments, I finally realized that that was just not enough.

So, I went to school. Actually, school was both a desire and a necessity. And for several years it made me happy, if happiness is defined by a certain level of contentment and the challenge that makes one move forward. College certainly did both of those things, and taught me a great deal for which I will always be grateful.

But, all things come to an end eventually. I graduated and found work. I actually liked my job a great deal, but mostly I liked the fact that much of the time, I was the one in charge. And although that too had an element of satisfaction in it, I became aware that whatever satisfaction was there, it just wasn’t enough.

Then the opportunity to teach came along. Not something I was looking for, but something I was willing to try. And it worked for several years. Again, that element of satisfaction was high a great deal of the time, I was absorbed in what I was doing and being. But, as will happen, the bottom dropped out and I was no longer physically able to meet the demands of the niche I had found. I entered the world of disability and all the bureaucratic hassles attached to that reality.

Just trying to make the adjustments took up a great deal of my time and energy. That wasn’t a particularly happy period, but I did manage to get through it. I survived. There was satisfaction in that awareness, even if it lacked a sense of contentment. Actually, I had to struggle against resignation a great deal of the time.

Next came the move back to the city of my birth. Coming full circle. For those of you who are familiar with this blog, you know that I spent some time trying on the role of a couch potato. I had earned it. But, I certainly wasn’t happy with it.

Throughout all of this, there was the writing: daily journaling, sometimes sporadic, poetry, and essays. It was another kind of music that wove all of the rest of my time together. Made it all of a piece. It was the warp and woof of the tapestry of my life. And no where else, was I ever as happy as when I was writing. Writing was the glue that held my life together.

Oh, there were always other things and people. I owned several dogs and they were each a delight onto themselves. But dogs, like people, come and go and take emotional investment that hurts when they must pass on. I had learned that other people can’t be ones only source of happiness. Happiness must come from within.

When I said that I get fudgy about that word, that is what I was speaking about. I love fudge, especially the kind with chunks of walnut in it. But walnuts can get stuck in the teeth, and can even break them if bitten wrongly. That is a great deal of what life is all about. Enjoying the fudge, but also staying alert to the fact that it is only a momentary pleasure. Just as happiness can be.

I truly believe it is important to take the time to explore ones history of happiness. The word itself is rather slippery, its definition often changing with or without a moment’s notice. Taking the time to define what has made you happy in the past, can lead to other paths that allow those moments of contentment to flourish.

Writing makes me happy. That doesn’t mean it is always easy or even goes smoothly. I find contentment and satisfaction on the page, more often than not. And after all of these years of searching for happiness, it is incredibly wonderful to know that piece of information. I wouldn’t have ever found it if I hadn’t been driven to write again and again and eventually realized that words and forming them were what held my existence together.

What makes you happy? How do you define happiness? For me, it means a certain balance of contentment and satisfaction derived from a continuing challenge that keeps me exploring and searching, as well as finding what I am searching for. And yes, there are still chunks of walnut in my fudge, but it’s also home-made and that is pleasing all in itself. I am still creating what surrounds me, still moving to the music that I hear inside of my head, still making new friends, and that for me is happiness.

I’d also like a Golden Retriever puppy, at least for a few days, but pets are not allowed where I have chosen to live. That’s okay too, dogs have a tendency to find me and I love the surprises they often bring, along with the love and exuberance they carry within their very cells. It’s contagious.

The Second Twenty Percent

 

On my last blog, I started a list of 101 things about me. When I came here this morning I had lots of ideas, but nothing concrete. So, I will continue my list.

21. I am a very intense sort of person. When I am interested, you have my full undivided attention. That also means that when I’m ‘into’ something, I might not respond or even hear my name being called. My older sister once told me that she envies that quality about me. That I often bite off more than I can chew and when I find that it’s too much, I simply spit it out and go find something else to sink my teeth into.

22. I used to paint. We lived in an old five bedroom, two story farm house out in the county. I took over an upstairs bedroom and my husband built me an easel. I wasn’t very good at it because I had little training, but figured I would learn as I went along. And although I was focused for a time, I also had four children running loose and couldn’t keep track of them while doing the painting.

23. Which is one of the reasons I love the coloring I started doing some months ago. I get to enjoy all the fun of choosing the colors, watching the design come alive under my fingers, but none of the hassle and work of figuring it all out from scratch, especially placement.

24. Although I am a good listener, I am definitely a visual person. Instructions, without pictures, usually are wasted on me. I need to “see” what you mean before I fully comprehend.

25. Dogs and other animals love me and I, them. I have had incredible experiences with both domesticated and wild creatures. I speak to them and believe that, on occasion, they speak to me.

26. I make the best raspberry pie. Got the recipe from my grandmother, and like her had an entire raspberry patch in my yard. I loved to go out there early in the morning with my tri-colored collie and watch as he barked once and all the little black birds would rise up in a cloud of beating wings. He loved it too and was always pleased at the amount of power he wielded.

27. I am a fairly good, but lazy cook. Which means when I make homemade pasties, I buy the already made and rolled dough for the crust.

28. I love wooden boxes and decorative tins. I think that might have to do with my pack rat issues, or my need to keep things contained in some fashion. Not so much ordered, as given a place to belong.

29. Although I love jewelry, I seldom wear it. I do wear a small silver ring on the pinkie of my right hand. It is the face of an owl and my daughter gave it to me when she was about 13 or 14. She just turned 30. My nephew gave me a beautiful ring for Christmas a couple of years ago. It also is silver and has blue stones in it. Those are the only pieces of  jewelry I wear on a daily basis.

30. I really miss my fat lady clothes. I have never thought of myself as a clothes horse type person, and yet, now that I’ve lost so much weight, I am reluctant to go shopping for new ones.

31. Casual dresser, that’s me. I really like feeling comfortable. I have not worn a dress in over twenty years, even at my children’s weddings.

32. I learned how to ice skate because I could sing. We lived across the street from a city park that provided an ice rink every winter. I would go with my siblings, put on my skates, stand up and someone would grab my hand and ask me to sing one of the current popular songs, pulling me around the rink as I did so. Some of my older brother’s friends would give me a nickel if I sang certain songs. Ahhhh, if only they had had American Idol back then.

33. But then, I wouldn’t be a writer, a poet, and a blogger. There is always something to be said about timing.

34. I have a steel pin/plate in my head from a car accident when I was four years old. The scar on the left side of my head has shaped me in ways nothing else could have. It is u-shaped and shelters my ear and I now see it as a symbol, a gift from the Universe that set me apart for particular purposes and reasons.

35. I use a cane on those days when I feel a bit unsteady, but haven’t needed it much since the weight loss. It hangs on the door knob at the entrance of my apartment. I think some people think its no more than a weird aspect of my interior decorating skills, or lack there of.

36. College was one of the best experiences of my life. I started when I was 37 years old and it took me seven years to complete my four year degree. I was still raising children at the time, and also working.

37. I did two majors in college, one in History and the other in English. I also did a minor in Women’s Studies. It was the first time in my life that I was told I had a fine mind and had been whole-heartedly given permission to use it in whatever manner I chose.

38. One of my deepest desires is to go on learning until the moment of my death, and hopefully beyond it.

39. I have a very strong spiritual belief system, but am not religious.

40. I finished another tub of ice cream last night (not in one sitting), so am still looking for people with leftovers.

A Tiger Named Pain

Writer’s Island Prompt #10  “MOST AMAZING EXPERIENCE”

Pain is the shell that encloses your understanding.    __Kahlil Gibran

Thirty-plus years ago, I gave birth to my fourth and last child. She was beautiful and healthy, but I seemed to be in almost constant pain after bringing her home. I’d had arthritic pain since age 17, always in different joints, most consistently in my lower back and hips. This was different. It seemed to concentrate in my hands and the joints of my fingers. I was tired most of the time. When the pain continued, I made an appointment with my regular doctor.

He took x-rays and told me he thought I had Rheumatoid Arthritis. I went blank as he explained to me that this form of arthritis was painful and crippling. I remember going directly to the library after leaving his office. After finding, and checking out, four large books on Arthritis, I brought them home and attempted to read them. It didn’t go well. Each of the tomes had a chapter on Rheumatoid, and each of those chapters began with exactly the same sentence: Rheumatoid Arthritis is the most painful and crippling form of this illness.

I carried the four books back out to the car and drove into town to the library, dropping them, one at a time, in the outside drop box. They made a resounding thud when they landed. I drove home in a fog. The doctor had given me a prescription for an anti-inflammatory drug and I began taking it immediately. Although the pain diminished to some extent, it was always there, and the exhaustion never really lifted. Most evenings, after cleaning up the kitchen, and putting the kids to bed, I would drop into the rocker in the living room and just sit there, feeling whatever energy I might still retain, oozing away, as though dripping off my fingertips.

My husband told me that he felt really cheated by the diagnosis. When I asked him to explain, he told me that he felt that he’d been cheated out of a full partner, and might now be saddled with a cripple. If I wasn’t suffering from what has been termed the after baby blues, I was definitely dealing with a lot of depression. I took my medication regularly and also took time out to take warm baths because they relaxed and soothed me.

Meanwhile, I was trying to get on with resuming a rather hectic life. I had always been a veracious reader and continued to do just that. I was interested in a wide variety of reading material and much of it pertained to psychology and the spiritual aspects of life. In doing that reading, I had come across the idea of creating ones own personal space inside ones own being. At that point in time, I desperately needed just such a place and began to seek it actively.

My two youngest were only fifteen months apart in age, so when they went down for an afternoon nap, I would go in my bedroom, sit crossed legged on my bed, and actively seek to create an inner space that would allow me to rest, relax, and possibly refuel. After many attempts, I settled on an image that both pleased and refreshed me. I would watch myself walk through an open, but very old wooden gate into a small meadow dotted with wild flowers and tall grass. There was a path there, through the grasses, that led to a huge boulder. I would climb up onto the boulder and sit, again crossed legged, and just breathe.

Once atop the boulder, I could see for miles. There were no signs of habitation anywhere in view, but there was a fast running wide river and mountains in the distance on the other side of the river. I was pleased with my creation, and got so good at it, that there were moments when I would feel the breeze caress my skin, and could even smell the faint scent of fresh earth, flowers, and even the water. And when I left that inner space, to resume my physical existence, I actually felt rested and more peaceful for having been there.

Then, one day, he came. I was in my usual spot, atop the boulder in my imagined inner space, looking out at the beautiful landscape when my eye caught movement in the tall grasses down near the river. The grasses seemed to be swaying from side to side, as though bowing to whatever was passing there in their midst. I was mesmerized and watched as he stepped from the grasses to the foot of the boulder where I was sitting. A larger than life, fully grown Siberian Tiger.

Amazingly enough, I wasn’t in the least bit frightened. I knew that this was taking place in my imagination, but I had always had a great deal of admiration for the Big Cats. No visit to the zoo was complete without a long slow stroll past their habitats. To me, they were the epitome of power and grace welded together in extraordinary physical beauty. So, I eagerly leaned forward and said, “Oh, yes. You are perfect,” and then grinned like a kid set free in a candy store, preferably in the chocolate section.

He gracefully settled on his back haunches and then spoke. He didn’t move his mouth, but spoke quite clearly into my mind. “I have come of my own accord, and at no ones bidding. I have come to teach and you will not treat me like your pet dog. I come of my own choosing, sent by the one you call Lord.” Then just as gracefully, he lowered the rest of his incredibly beautiful body, closed his eyes, and went to sleep.

I was stunned and past exhilaration. I wanted to jump up and down, hug myself, and ask him a thousand questions. What he’d said sounded a great deal like some sort of rabbi riddle. What was his name? Where had he come from? If he came at his own choosing, why did he say he  “was sent?” Why would I even think of treating him like my dog? I loved my pet, but this was way beyond anything even similar to that.

Over the next few days, I went eagerly to my secret place, always hoping he’d still be there, and he was. I did ask a great many questions, but his answers were again, more riddle than clear statement. He continued to tell me he had come from a long way away, a far off place that I wouldn’t understand. When I asked about his name, he avoided giving me a direct answer, and said instead, that I might call him, “ by the lesson he came to teach.”

By the third evening after his arrival, although I was still eager and even excited, I had begun to think this was a useless waste of energy. I couldn’t understand, either because I was just too dumb, or because he wasn’t a very good teacher. I began to prepare yet another warm bath, when suddenly he was there in the room with me. His voice was deep but gentle as he said, “I come to teach you about pain.”

I recoiled away from him and the words he spoke. How could he, the most beautiful and graceful creature, teach me about pain? He had said I was to call him by the lesson he came to teach. How could anyone expect me to call him by that word? Was this whole thing just some sort of cosmic joke played out at my expense? I was instantly crushed and wounded. I said, with deep deep sorrow and regret, “I think you better go now. I have enough pain in my life as it is, I don’t want or need any more.” I was in tears.

He said, just as quietly, “Do you remember when I came? How joyous and eager you were? Would that all would greet me in such a manner. ” There was deep sorrow in his eyes and his voice as he said that. Then he continued, “If you say I must go, I will do so, but I would ask you a question before I leave.” He paused, then asked,  ”You would put away all of that joy and eagerness because of  four simple letters, arranged in a random manner, defining a word you may not clearly understand?”

By then, I was sitting down on the floor, tears rolling softly down my face, but I heard his question. He hadn’t shouted, hadn’t raised his voice, but those words were caught forever in my mind. I thought about what he said, and what he meant. No, I didn’t understand, not the word, its meaning to my present life, who or what he might be, or why he had so suddenly appeared in my mind. And how bereft I felt at the thought of never again, seeing him, even if only in my imagination.

After a great deal of thought, during which he waited silently and patiently, I slowly nodded my head and said, “Okay, yes, you can stay.” And he did, teaching me many lessons about pain. One of them is here on this blog. It’s the story of the little seed (Story Time, Sept.23, 2008), and I learned that story as I weeded the huge garden my husband had planted, with my dog following along slowly beside me, and Pain’s deep gentle voice accompanying me the entire time.

He has never left me and has taught me many things and in many ways. I had always thought that the tigers I saw at the zoo, suffered a great deal from their captivity. Just looking at them, I could see how their skin was slack, hanging from their bellies and had thought it was because, in captivity, they couldn’t run freely and so their skin and perhaps, even some muscle had gone slack in the process. Not so. That is a natural condition, meant to secure life and help in survival. Big cats are predators and that means they hunt to live, battling other wild creatures for the very food that will sustain them. That slack skin and fur is meant to preserve and protect vital organs during that continuous battle. I had to learn the same lesson:  not to live so close to my skin and the skin (surface) of my own life.

I did get a second opinion from a Rheumatologist. He took magnified x-rays of my hands and found no distortion of any kind, which would definitely appear if I had Rheumatoid. He suggested that I might be suffering from a sleep disorder that actually mimics arthritis conditions in lab tests. My own doctor said that that sounded fishy. But the pain did diminish to its usual, and mostly, tolerable level.

Several years later, I entered college and took some basic courses in psychology. One of them was about different personality theories, and the men who had defined them. One of those men was Carl Gustav Jung, and I read about how he felt that each individual actually held a ‘guru’ within their psyche. A voice that spoke to the answers we all search for. But, a voice that could only be heard if one got still and quiet in some form of meditation. I knew my guru, he didn’t look like a Tibetan monk, he was a huge Siberian Tiger, named Pain.

While I taught for several years, I actually led groups of people through imaging techniques that I had come to understand were called “spontaneous imagery,” or “guided imagery.” Imagine my surprise, when one night after class, a shy quiet woman approached me with a question. She said that while following the sound of my voice, really getting into her own inner space, she was shocked to find herself, face to face with a great big tiger. She wanted to know if that was okay, and if it was, what she should do next? I laughed out loud, told her of my own experience,  and advised her to go home, get quiet, and ask him his name.

Introduction

When I was four years old, I already knew that pencil marks could be erased and never seen again. So, I very deliberately went looking for an ink pen for the adventure I had planned (there were always one or two in the kitchen junk drawer). Pen in hand, I secreted myself away with the photographer’s portrait of me, at age two, that sat out on a table in the living room. Carefully removing the photo from its frame, tongue winking between my pressed lips, I set out to make sure no one would ever forget the name of the little girl with creamed coffee curls and a wispy smile pictured there. With the spidery scrawl of a neophyte, I wrote my name at the bottom of the portrait in big black block letters, and unknowingly launched myself into a life- long love affair with pen, paper, and words.

Much much later, after marriage and four children, I went to college. And although I first set out to achieve a degree in History, I realized half way through, that all my elective credits were in English with a definite preference for writing classes. There I was introduced to poetry, and again found another life-long attachment, as well as a second major. Halfway through my college career, I became a single parent and afterward, found a full-time position as the General Manager of a new/used Bookstore.

At that point in time, I didn’t see writing as a career base. First of all, it was far too risky for a single mother with children to feed and to finish raising, and I saw myself as a poet and poets rarely, if ever, get to quit their day jobs. If I am to be completely honest, I also really liked working in the Bookstore surrounded by the other love of my life. However, I did start publishing some of my poems and one of them was accepted and anchored an anthology which was later nominated for a Grammy Award. The local media fuss about the award and my participation, opened another door, I might not have ever walked through otherwise.

I became a Freelance Writing Instructor, teaching my first class at the four year university from which I had graduated. Actually, it was a credit course in the Teacher’s Certification Program. Certainly not bad wages for a poet who only saw herself as a beginner. My specialty was Personal Writing: how to get on the page regularly and sustain that process over time. In other words, the Art of Keeping a Journal. I used everything I had learned by keeping a daily journal for ten years before that. It was one of the most exciting adventures I had ever committed myself to, and is the basis for this current blog.

I continued to teach for ten years, also giving workshops, and all day retreats, as well as leading classes in most of the fine arts schools and museums in the area. However, a life-long back condition disabled me about four years ago, and I had to quit and settle down to become, of all things, just another couch potato, watching television, reading books, and occasionally getting on my computer to write a random poem or email. Last year, on my 61st birthday, I tried an old exercise of writing a poem a day. It actually astounded me and I continued for four months until I moved back here to the city of my birth. The physical energy used up in transplanting myself put an end to the exercise, and I once again turned back to television and reading.

More recently, something I watched on TV prompted me to reopen my journal writing and that in turn, led me to create a Myspace page on which I used those poems from last year to fill up the blog space therein. Last week, I stumbled into a poet’s blog, here on Word Press, in which the author was writing a poem a day. I found myself going back to her page, encouraging her to continue. It isn’t often one finds another fool who will do that exercise and succeed at it. Which, of course, led me to here and this page where I intend to do what I am really quite good at: encourage others to get on the page and stay there because it just happens to be the cheapest form of therapy known to humankind, other than laughter, which can hurt if one does it too loudly and too much at a single go. So can writing, but both of them are in the category of ‘good pain.’ “I laughed until every muscle ached”, or, “I wrote until my fingers stiffened up and I couldn’t write anymore”, are good memories that I cherish. Do you?

I do welcome comments, and even disagreements, as long as they respect both participants’ rights to speak and to be heard.