Remarkably happy
What we bear for a moment, regardless of its sense of rightness — joy, anger, shame, … — needs to be set down, when it no longer needs to be borne
Last night I was sitting at the island in my recently completed kitchen. The soft purple glow suffusing from my backlit stainglass skylight.¹ A cool breeze coming in from the tall window to the garden, carrying in the distant hum and buzz of the city.
I felt gently and thoroughly embraced by the moment — the warm bones of the house, the light, the scents, just the all of it. I was taken with a bloom of contentment. Such a sublimely sweet experience!
Of course, I immediately thought to share it on Instagram. I was so keen to seize the moment — jam it into a 15s on the story ticker over that photo above. Keen to show : ”here! Look! I’m at peace. I’m happy with myself, by myself!”
I caught myself though…
I don’t have the same reflex to share equally affecting, but less pleasant moments; when I’m envious, angry or terrified… Nope.
Why should it be remarkable to be happy, but not otherwise?
When I’m bristled, brittle and brinelled, I prefer to be left alone. I’d either like to stew and digest it — or sulk. I usually bridle at concern or moral support; that I should need it! It takes effort to settle, to remind myself that they mean well, and I might need something. Granted, as I continue to grow up, it takes less and less effort.
On a public forum, I don’t want to declare I’m furious or despondent. I think it’s ridiculous. Part of me is ashamed for feeling shitty, as if one emotion is any less natural than another one.
But with a sense of pride, moments of contentment or joy, I’m likely to remark on such experiences. Share them for validation or connection or something else. Crumple them up, wrestle them into a 15s story. Putting a wild animal in a fucking cage.
… I’m rather worked up about it now.
It’s an appalling luxury: being annoyed about reflecting on the desire to digitally share a happy moment.
I currently think that watching out for and then pinning down these happier experiences — like butterflies in a display — is a sign of misery, or at least a fear that such moments are finite and in short supply. In which case, ironically, grasping at one that has just happened means my hands aren’t free for the next.
I’m reminded of a zen koan. One I’ve probably referenced somewhere before: The Lady at the River Crossing. What we bear for a moment, regardless of its sense of rightness — joy, anger, shame, … — needs to be set down, when it no longer needs to be borne; once the River has been crossed.
I wonder a great deal on how to write about these things — much more so than technical and scientific things — I often marvel at how much I’ve grown up over the years, but within a short time, I’ll be disappointed by how much I haven’t grown up; that what I claim I am doesn’t go all the way through to my marrow. It reminds me of a term in physics used in gas theory: the mean free distance. It’s an average of the distance an atom or molecule travels in a volume before it collides with another object. In this case it’d be more like the mean free disappointment (lolz): the average time between moments of not accepting I’m human.
¹The previous owner left it forgotten in the basement! A lovely antique piece in mint condition.
