on happiness

I am happy.

Let me repeat that: I am happy.

Those aren't necessarily words I say very often. Usually, I'm "splendid" or "fine" or "tired" or "fantastic." But "happy"? I haven't been happy in ages.

These days, I'm happy. I'm also a bit run down, overwhelmed, surprised, and, occasionally, anxious. But underneath all of that, when I stop and ponder the days I'm living, there's a deep current of happiness running through it.

Why? I figured you'd want to know.

I am happy because about six weeks ago I started dating a guy who delights me; he makes me laugh and makes me think. I like him a lot. I've not dated much, so at first I was a bit skittery about this whole thing. And then I went on a date with P. and I realized it's not so scary. More important, he's not so scary. He's actually pretty darn great.

I am happy because work is challenging. It's stressful, and I certainly feel a bit out of my depth, but I also feel trusted (God knows why!) by my boss, curious about learning new processes, honored to be working with my authors, delighted to be training a new copy editor, humbled to work where I do.

I am happy because in early July I spent a week at a writing workshop at the Collegeville Institute. There were twelve of us who participated in the workshop with Lauren Winner, our facilitator. For a while I have struggled with writing. I have wondered if I have anything of value to say, anything meaningful to offer. That week gave me back my voice, rekindled my writing enthusiasm, and inspired me to figure out where my words belong.

You know there's a "But . . . " coming, don't you?

Over the past month, I've realized that I don't trust happiness. I expect the joy to come to a crashing halt, to be stopped in its tracks, to evaporate. Pick your dreadful and cliche metaphor. By letting myself be happy, I'm fighting against a lifetime (perhaps generations) of expecting the worst. We are Murphys, and there is a law for us, you know?

In my senior year AP English class in high school, we analyzed Thomas Lux's poem, "Refrigerator, 1957." It is, to this day, one of my favorite poems. I vividly recall arguing in the middle of class with the teacher, a dear friend of mine, about the last lines of the poem:
. . . because you do not eat
that which rips your heart with joy.

At eighteen, I couldn't fathom why you wouldn't rush toward joy, take it in, soak it up, live it. Why not crack open that jar of cherries and eat them with reckless abandon? We should go after joy; we should be happy.

Now, eleven years later, I approach the poem and those lines with a little more understanding. Perhaps Ms. B. was right: attaining joy—even when we know the joy we want to attain—isn't always possible or easy. I realize now that maybe she was trying to tell me that happiness involves trust, happiness means recognizing that there is unhappiness. Happiness might even mean living unhappiness for a while.

These days, that's the balance I'm walking. I am happy, and I am, deep down, terrified that something will upset that joy. But at the moment, I'm learning how to set aside the fear because he just kissed me, and I accomplished a lot at the office today, and tonight I have put words on a page.

Indeed, happy.