Time Machine

Being 29, teetering on that landmark of 30, has pushed me into this childhood appreciation, or perhaps more LIFE appreciation. So I got this urge to build a fort. I shuffled my living room into an even bigger disarray, draped a sheet over the couch and the chair, and rigged the other side up with a broom handle. I was proud of myself. This monument to my childhood was turning out well. I threw in a blanket and some pillows. I lit some candles that I used to make s'mores. It seemed almost a waste to have a fort with no s'mores. A toothpick and a candle was a terrible substitute for a real fire and tree limb. But it worked. Kind of. Well, at least in the sense that it gave me a much needed break from the crushing realities of adulthood. My little fort: Time Machine to Innocence.

I came to this conclusion as I sat under a rigged up sheet in a pile of pillows with melted chocolate all over my fingers and face: Sometimes, you just need to build a fort. I will never be a carefree kid again, but I will certainly be a carefree adult. I will never be the innocence that embraced me as a child, but I will feel it again. I will never have to learn to ride a bike again, but I will learn to play the guitar. I will never wonder why the sky is blue or the grass is green, but I do wonder why we look away when someone is in pain. I will never be the heart surgeon I once dreamed, but I will still dream. New dreams, better dreams. Even though my yesterdays are lived and their significance is known, my tomorrow's mysteries have yet to be discovered.

Who knows? Maybe tomorrow I'll hopscotch.

Happiness is a beach

I find it incredibly ironic that I spent the majority of my recent (actually still current) vacation reading a book on happiness. It wasn't really to improve my own happiness, per se', but more of an inquisitive endeavor. I wonder "Can I really be happier?" Once I began to think about my own happiness and the definition of such a seemingly subjective word, I had to continue reading this amazing and profoundly simple book. "The Geography of Bliss" chronicles Eric Weiner's traverse across the world to find the happiest places in the world. (Sorry, Disney, you were not on the list, though I may just question Eric's motives...)
In an appeal, certainly to people like me, there is a distinct scientific approach to his journey. Honestly, I loved it. I love the book, the ideas, his writing; I was flat out amazed (and certainly not due to the amounts of wine consumed on said vacation). Beyond anything, it made me think. (Although, according to Mr. Weiner, that depreciates my happiness.)

The beach for me, currently, is happiness. But not for long. I find myself at a loss for what to do, where to go. On more than one ocassion, I found myself wondering around the condo looking for something, wondering what do I really want to do? Where do I really want to go? What would really make me happy at this moment? It's all about me here, alone, listening to the waves assault the beach below. Pondering how much more would I be enjoying this if there was someone, anyone, accompanying my journey? I've forced myself to be somewhat secluded and isolated. My realization that I've never had an actual vacation, especially alone, made me think I needed one. My current schedule of visiting and helping made me think I needed to go off alone, where noone needed me, or wanted me, or even knew or cared about me. Yes, I thought my happiness was lying dormant and would be unleashed on this white sandy paradise I now find myself in. Alone.
I think my conclusion is the same as Eric's (at least partially). I'm not too happy alone. Not only is that a science, it's personal. Oh sure, there are times when I long for myself, where I get so lost in others that I need to refocus on myself, and, strangely, come to the re-realization, that I am most happy with others. There are moments when nature and the roar of the ocean bring a strange silent peace to my soul that can only be experienced alone. And then I open my eyes to the nothingness in the room.
And then I realize... My happiness lies in all things. In experience and indifference. In people. In aloneness. In quiet and in chaos. My happiness lies in something far greater, yet so superficial. In darkness and in light. Sunrise and sunset. A complex contradiction, yet still so simple. I am profoundly astounded at the manners in which happiness reveals itself, if we let it. If we let ourselves.
So let yourself. Let yourself revel in the happy. Just take a moment and be.
Be happy. You don't need a book to tell you that. Or some insignificant blog, for goodness sake.