High on Happiness

Archive for December, 2009

I came across a beautiful quote today, from a brilliant Italian architect, engineer and archeologist who lived in the late 1400’s.  His name was Fra Giovanni Giocondo, and his counsel about living in happiness rolls across six centuries to us today.

“I am your friend,” he said, “and my love for you goes deep.  There is nothing I can give you which you have not got.  But there is much, very much, that, while I cannot give it you can take.  No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in today.  Take heaven!  No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present little instant.  Take peace!  The gloom of the world is but a shadow.  Behind it, yet within our reach, is joy.”

“No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in today.”  There is no other life but the one unfolding around us right now.  And this life, this moment–if you look into it deeply enough, if you are awake and fully present within it, and sense how far it extends–holds everything:  All beauty; all grace; all goodness; all truth.  Right here, right now, is perfection.

“No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present little instant.”  All that hides peace is your warring against what is, your wanting it to be otherwise.  The moment you exchange your warring and wanting for acceptance, peace descends.

The faults we perceive, in ourselves, in each other, in the world, truly are but shadows.  And it is we ourselves who cast them, with our storyboard judgments and beliefs.  But once we learn to set aside our criticism and our theories about how things ought to be, and to open our hearts instead, seeing what is before us with clarity and love, the light of joy shines through.

And it’s all right there, within you, within me, within us all, for the taking.  Take heaven.  Take peace.  Take joy.

“Honey is wonderful,” said Pooh.  “But there’s something that comes just before.”

It’s the tingle before the kiss, the moisture that fills your mouth just before the bite of an orange.  It’s the little shiver of excitement you feel when you wake at the dawn of a special day, as if someone were ringing little silver bells, just for you.

It’s anticipation, the sense that something’s coming and it’s going to be beautiful.  (Okay, you can anticipate dreadfulness, too, if you choose.  But since it’s a choice, go ahead, take beautiful.)

It’s a magical feeling because even though it’s looking toward the coming moment, it’s looking from right here, right now.   You breathe it in and don’t dare think a thought lest you break its spell.  You’re just rooted in the feeling, in the quiet quivering sense of expectation:  Something exquisite this way comes.  And every part of you is getting ready.

I think that’s the way trees greet the dawn.  Look how they stretch their branches up to receive the new day.  It could hold anything.  Miracles are possible.   The sun could shine.  Or soft, glittering snowflakes could blanket them.

Because what we focus on expands in our experience, I think we should take a clue from those trees.  Greet the day anticipating wonders and miracles.  Be ready for joy to pour all over your day like honey, sweet and thick and golden.  Be ready for the shine of a smile, the glitter of good fortune softly tumbling all around you.  Anticipate happiness, deep as the ocean, with thousands of joy ripples dancing on its rolling waves.  Wake glad.  See what happens.

It’s a secret too-well kept, except by children, who know it in their bones:  Playfulness is the multi-vitamin of the soul, giving it the power to leap from sleep and conquer sour gravity with nothing but imagination and will.

Playfulness is the stuff that makes sparkling lemonade from mouth-puckering fruit, that turns the aftermath of blizzards into snowmen, that makes mountains with mashed potatoes, and castles from mere sand.

Playfulness looks for the possibilities in things.  It asks “what if?” and says, “let’s pretend.”  It experiments and discovers. It reaches and climbs and builds.  It puts things together in new combinations.  It takes things apart to see how they work.

Play loves to dig and to reach and explore.  It finds dinosaur bones in deserts.  It dives into oceans to record the sound of whales.  It shoots telescopes into outer space just to see what it can see.

Playfulness is inventive.  It turns caterpillars’ threads into silk, and sand into marbles.  It dreams up roller skates and hot fudge sundaes and tubas.

Play loves to be in motion.  It twirls ‘til it’s dizzy just to see the world spin.  It swings and slides and somersaults and hops and does ballet and the rumba.

It delights in color and music. It paints and shapes and decorates.  It strums and plunks and whistles and hums.  It makes symphonies and songs.

It likes puzzles and mysteries and stories and games.  It feeds on wonder and giggles and gasps and grins.  It likes surprises, and sometimes, even being scared.  It knows how to make fun of things.  It’s witty and punny and gets the joke.

Play is the celebration of the expansiveness and creativity of our being.  It’s the unfettered expression of our talents and strengths, rooted in our highest values, resilient and unafraid.  At its core, playfulness is our Yes to life.  Say it!  It’s happiness, set free.

To those who are cold, warmth;
To those who travel, safety;
To those who are alone, serenity;
To those who are weary, rest.

To the forlorn, hope;
To the young, sparkling dreams;
To the elderly, fond memories;
To the suffering, relief;
To the grieving, peace;
To the oppressed, freedom.

To those who protect us, courage;
To those who lead us, wisdom;
To those who inspire us, gratitude;
To those who serve us, thanks.

To those who are strangers, kindness;
To those who are distant, connection;
To those who lift our spirits, joy;
To all who share our lives, love.

“It was Christmas,” Jen told me, “and my son was six.  Like most six-year-olds, he was really excited about the coming holiday.

“The problem was that I was flat broke.  It was all I could do to put food on the table.  But I wanted to do something to make Nate’s Christmas special.

“One day, just as the shopping season was in full swing, I got a crazy idea.  ‘Nate,’ I said to my son, ‘Would you like to play a Christmas game?’  Of course he was eager to play.

“’Well, it’s a secret,’ I whispered, putting my fingers to my lips and looking around as if to see if anyone was listening.  ‘Here’s the deal.  You and I own absolutely everything in the world.  Everything!  It’s all ours!

“‘But, see, there’s so much of it  that we don’t have anywhere to keep it.  So we made stores and we put the stuff there, and we let people come and buy it and take it to their homes to enjoy.  Cool, huh?’

“’Really?’ Nate said, all big-eyed.  ‘Everything?’

“’Yes,’ I told him.  ‘Absolutely everything.  Would you like to go visit our stuff and see how much of it there really is?’

“’Sure!’ he said.  And off we went.  Nobody paid any attention to two more shoppers pawing through the merchandise.

“We started at the local dimestore and looked at the cowboy hats and goldfish and parakeets and clay.  Then we went to the toy store, and Nate was in heaven, sitting on bikes, pulling games from the shelves, trying on a baseball glove.  He carefully lifted a big red fire truck from one of the shelves.  “Boy, I hope somebody takes this home,” he said.  “It would sad if it just sat here in the store.”

“We went to the sporting goods store and he tried on ice skates and lay on a big toboggan. We looked at kayaks and fishing rods and tents and canoes.

“’It’s a good thing we have these stores!’ Nate said.  ‘We sure own an awful lot of stuff!’

“I got into the game, too,” laughed Jen.  I tried on dresses and rings and dabbed on samples of perfume as we toured a big department store.  We sat on soft sofas and watched the display TVs.

“We must have spent five hours, just going from store to store, laughing and pretending that the whole world was ours.

“We were exhausted when we got home, and as happy as if we really did own everything. We had supper and some cocoa, and after his bath, I read Nate a story and tucked him into bed.  As I bent to give him a good-night kiss, he flung his arms around me and squeezed me tight.  ‘We really had fun today, didn’t we!’ he said.

“’We sure did, buddy,’ I answered.  ‘Have a good sleep and sweet dreams.’

“’Mom?’ he said, looking me right in the eyes, ‘I really love you.’

“’I love you, too, Nate,’ I said.  And as I turned off the light, I knew our secret was really true.  Everything that mattered in the world was ours.”

In this season of peace and joy, the fullest hearts of all are pouring out compassion.  Those who feel the deepest happiness, the kind that’s awash with serenity and peace, have known as well, you see, life’s deepest sorrows.  They’ve felt the sting of loss, the agony of grief, the pain of unanswerable questions.  They know what it is to feel alone, to feel hopeless and lost and discouraged.  And having come through to the other side, they reach out as beacons of gentle light to those who are still lost or suffering.

They quietly give their gifts: a coin, a basket, a word, a touch.  They give with love of their time, their treasure, and their attention.  They listen, they encourage, they invite, and they share.  They send their wishes and their prayers on the wings of the Infinite to all who are in need.

I’ve seen you, you compassionate ones, reaching out.  I’ve seen you feed and clothe and comfort and nurse.  I’ve watched you sacrifice sleep and stretch your tolerance and dollars just to lighten another’s load or to paint a small smile on a face that was streaked with tears before you came along.  I’ve watched you kindle laughter and brighten eyes.  And without even knowing it, you have deepened my joy, and my faith.

You do happiness awesomely well.  And I thank you.

Everybody’s got their troubles, some tiny enough that they’re no more than a sneeze, and some so big their owners drag ‘em around like burlap sacks full of wet sand. There’s nobody who can’t use a little strand of joy poked through the fabric of her day – a smile, a kind gesture, a word of encouragement and support.

It takes so little to make a difference in somebody’s day, to beam a little sunlight on it.  Why, a simple hello, spoken with genuine gladness wakes the spirit and warms the heart.

Oh, I know you have troubles of your own.  And maybe you wonder why you should be the joy weaver.  Why can’t George do it?

Well, he could!  As a matter of fact, he ought to!  Not because he’s without his own little pack of stresses, frustrations and groans.  But because it would do the same things for him that it will do for you:  Let him get his groove on, his beat going.

You know, you start singing a little joy song and pretty soon it echoes back at you from all the walls and halls and faces around you.  Happiness is potent stuff.  One little whiff of it, one little beep of its horn, and people perk right up.  They can’t help it; it’s part of their wiring.  And that’s a fact.

Lord knows we got us plenty of gloom and grumbles.  We don’t need any more.  What we need—what we really, really need–are a few good joy-weavers out there spreadin’ it around, stitching grins through the cloth of the day, bringing out its sparkle and its light, adding some bright woof to its warp.  What do you say?  You want to sign up?  It’s easy.  And the pay’s great.  Give it a shot.  Get out there and flash that smile.

One rainy autumn day, having nothing better to do, a young girl wandered into the attic of her family’s house.  In one dim corner, on an old pedestal table, she found an ornately carved wooden box.  It was locked, but when she turned it over, she found the key to it taped to its underside.  She wasn’t sure if she should open the box or not, so she went to ask her mother.

“The letters!” Mother said when the girl asked her what was in the box.  “I had forgotten all about them!”  She explained that they were letters that her mother had written to her when she was in college, filled with memories of her childhood, as if Grandma wanted her to remember her roots.  “Bring them down,” the Mother said, smiling.  “We can read some of them together after supper tonight.”

And so began a warm ritual that lasted for several weeks, the mother reading the letters, laughing over the stories, retelling the stories from her point of view.  “I was so mad at Henry when he tore that dress!” she would say, or “What Mom never knew was that we snuck off to the movies that day.”

That year, when the holidays came around, the young girl opened a gift with a note that said, “A memory-keeper of your own,” and inside was a thick leather diary with a little brass lock and key and a beautiful pen.  “Maybe someday, twenty years from now, you’ll find it again,” her mother said, “and remember our sharing time when you read your memories to your daughter.”

Tucked away in your mind, like jewels hidden in an ornate box, you have beautiful memories, too.   Sometime, after supper, unlock and unfold them.  Share them with someone you love over the holidays.  See what stories your tales spark from those who are gathered with you.  They could be the best gifts of all.  And you may just begin what will be a treasured tradition.

Beam it up, baby.
Get your shine face on.
The world’s just waiting
for your smile, you know,
for your hello.

When they ask you how you are,
Say, “Beautiful!”
Say “Fabulous!”
Say “Lovin’ It!”
Say “On top of the world!”

Say it like your head is full of starshine,
Like you just fell in love.
And then be it, all aglow
And radiating your dazzle.

Pretend if you have to.
Let it be your best act,
Like you just stepped on stage
And into the spotlight,
And the crowd is whistling
And going wild, just because you’re here.

Somewhere in another dimension, after all, that’s the truth.
That’s the truth: You’re a star.

So beam it up, baby.
Get your shine face on.
The worlds’ just waiting
For your smile, you know,
For your hello.

“Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world.” ~John Milton

Of all the colors happiness wears, the one that sweeps us most deeply to its core is awe.   It bathes us in a kind of majestic silence, stilling our racing thoughts and opening our hearts in a glorious gratefulness for the sheer privilege of being alive in the midst of this beautiful, unfathomable mystery.

As it washes through us, awe both humbles and exalts us, and the only response we can make is one of thanksgiving.  And because awe is so linked to gratitude, gratitude is a pathway that leads us to it.  Practice gratitude until you feel it in your bones, and you will be transformed with reverence for life, and with exquisite joy.