Happy

People complaining about an overemphasis on happy as a virtue this week. And I am bothered. Childhood was not happy for me. My parents were not happy people, not happy with their lives, their choices, their limited opportunities. There was fun at (mostly maternal relatives) family gatherings, laughter and card games and loud joking around. My parents struggled for stability, and achieved it physically and (mostly) financially. Steady job, bills paid, house and food and through thrift and planning, a stable future.

Not much else, but from where they came from, this was enormous. Perhaps there was disappointment that this didn't also deliver happiness. Not knowing where the next meal was coming from, nor what it would be, erodes the very idea of being happy. To know... doesn't actually guarantee it though. They would never find wealth, but they never again starved. Sent all their children through Catholic school (for which I will always be grateful), and went on vacations (frugally) and life insurance premiums meant security for my 90+ mother. Not bad, for a factory worker. Not quite happy, with so much anger and loss.

My father told me, in so many words, how miserable he was, how much he hated himself and his life as the worker for people who hated him. My mother often admitted she had many days when she'd like to end it all. She joked "Divorce - never. Murder - often." Or that there were days she'd gladly have given any of her children to any passing stranger. Funny how I didn't feel secure as a kid.

Happy was not on the table with the margarine and white bread, full glass of whole milk and fried chicken. While my mother remembered eating shortening on bread with brown sugar - as a treat. And meal.

I never believed life would give me any happiness, either. Stability was the best I could hope for. Married the first guy who seemed to want me. My own wants so deeply buried.

Then Dylan and I found each other, and happy seeped in. Contentment, safety, security, laughter too. Dylan wanted all the people he cared about to be happy. He really did. Does. Yes, joy is wonderful, but happy is the ground, the gesso to joy. A bottom that assures me I'm in the right place, doing the right thing, with the right people (for me.) Happy is the earth beneath me, with rich soil and support when I'm struggling. Not living by an external script, but from my own heart and soul. Happy supports joy.

Real happy isn't what advertising and pop culture sell, it's about the real basis for living my own life. Happiness that allows for sadness and grief, loss and pain, but beneath it all, yeah... I'm happy with what I've done, who I am, and who shares my life, and who I share my life with. Joy is the elation, the spark. Happiness is the banked embers, reliable and warm.


Had a patient who'd had a stroke, partial aphasia. An educated man, he would find a way around the words he couldn't say through the elliptical path to words he could. Good was beyond him, lost amongst the stars. So Happy would suffice. Happy=Good for him. As for me. If it's good enough, it's happy.

Since working through the PTSD, happy continues to pour in. I'm flooded with happy, even when tired and sad, irritated and flailing. There is a basement to my misery, and I can smile through the troubles - because of the happy. It's a contentment, a sureness of being loved, a physical security, a reasonable hope for the future. Maybe I'll die before the climate change and political disasters and social wars hit. Maybe not, but I'll still love and care and do what I can.

Whatever happens, I love the world. I care. I'm rather happy.


Hell, it rained a bit today. Not enough to fill gutters, but rain. Huzzah. Happy!