Thoughts on Happiness

I have been thinking quite a lot about happiness recently. This is, I suppose, an inevitable result of feeling unhappy with a couple of life situations that are, at the moment, completely out of my control. Neither of these things are things I can change, but I have allowed the two to shove me down a spiral of sadness and misery. I am working at letting myself be happy regardless, but it’s more difficult than it seems.

In addition to this situational thinking, The Dancing Newt and Schmetterling and Eric Weiner and, unwittingly, my roommate have all written, said, or done something recently that set me thinking even more about happiness. (This post of Schmetterling’s actually came when I thought I had ended said thinking riff. And set me thinking all over again. But more on what he said later.)

Anyway, the thinking started last Friday, when my roommate came home from a swing dance date as giddy as I’ve ever seen her. And she’s a happy person. Anyway, she wanted to keep dancing around and before I knew it, our other roommate had started playing the song “Happiness” from You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown.

And that started it all: the premise of the song “Happiness” is that happiness comes as a result of small things. Charlie Brown starts off the song, because he’s ecstatic to learn that the redheaded girl chews her pencil, and that means she’s human! (Personally, I think chewing pencils is a bad, nervous habit. One I have. And am reminded of when I see anyone else chewing a pencil.) The song goes on to list several small things as happiness: pizza with sausage, learning to whistle, five different crayons, tying your shoes, even in being alone now and then. (My favorite line, by far, that: I find myself craving solitude sometimes, and need a certain amount of “me” time to be sane and content) It culminates in the idea that happiness is anything an individual loves—whether it’s people, food, or a place. While I found this a good idea, I found the opposite eqeually true: even things people love are known to cause disappointment.

Speaking of place, Eric Weiner’s The Geography of Bliss: One Grump’s Search for the Happiest Places in the World continued to spur on my preponderance of ponderings about happiness as I read it last week. Weiner set out to explore the reverse of the maxim that happiness isn’t a state; it’s a state of mind. There is a whole branch of psychology devoted to studying happiness, and they have a way of ranking places based on how they rank on a happiness scale. (The United States, incidentally, does not rank as high on the happy scale as I expected)

He explored places like Bhutan, where they try to measure Gross National Happiness—because the government thinks it a better indicator than GDP. (Incidentally, happiness as policy connected to this post by my Newt-y friend.) He visited Iceland, a remarkably happy place, due in part to its creativity and its attitude that its citizens are allowed to fail and change. Indeed, failure and change are expected. And he visited Moldova, where it was miserable—but the fruits and vegetables were fresh. In the end, he didn’t try to make any broad sweeping conclusions about happiness: people who were happy were happy for variable reasons. (Which means, I suppose, that Tolstoy got it wrong. All happy families are not alike.)

But it led me to re-think part of the premise I’ve been thinking of recently—namely, that I would be happier if I were someplace other than where I am. (Although I must admit that after reading about Moldova, I think I’d feel happier coming home. Just by virtue of comparison.)

I thought I’d exhausted my thoughts about happiness, especially since I had yet to reach a conclusion about how to force myself to be happier (NEWS FLASH: This just in. I discovered that happiness isn’t something I can force on myself, although I can pursue people and things that have been known to help me be happy before.).

And then Schmetterling’s post came. I already linked it, so use that link. Or maybe you already have. Anyhow, his posted started me thinking. Primarily about Billy Joel’s “Vienna.” He quoted the latter half of this line: “You know that when the truth is told, you can get what you want or you can just get old” and I thought about that and this line: “Dream on, but don’t imagine they’ll all come true.”

At first I thought the dreaming line stood as stark contradiction to the whole song. Then I realized: it doesn’t. The song is advocating slowing down, but not giving up. If you only imagine all of your dreams will come true, they won’t. But some dreams come more easily than others, and rushing around does not always help us to fulfill our dreams.

“Vienna” is replete with admonitions to slow down, and (thanks to Schmetterling for the post that triggered the epiphany) I realize far too often I equate happiness with being so occupied and stressed, I am practically frenetic. And while exact and perfect happiness doesn’t come from slowing down, it does help to bring a little mellowness to my demeanor.

Besides, I’ve made a discovery: I don’t think we’re intended to be happy all the time. Otherwise, it would be void of any meaning as an emotion. Just as smiles would lose their power if they were the law.

Snug as a Bug in a Rug in My Own Little Cookie Carton

Lately, I've been thinking about Twiddlebugs.

Yes, it's true.  I haven't watched Sesame Street since I was eight or so, but I've been thinking about a set of its characters.  This is why.

My mom bought us the complete set of Sesame Street books when we were kids.  The first book I recall reading, all by myself, was the story of the little red hen.  As played by Bert.  And all of the unhelpful people played by other characters.  That particular story was my favorite, and my older sister insisted once that couldn't have been the first book I actually read on my own because I had the story memorized.

Anyway, back to Twiddlebugs.  My older sister had a favorite as well: The Twiddlebugs' Dream House.  It told the story of the four Twiddlebugs moving from their little cookie carton to a dream house indoors.  Only the dream house turned out to be a doll house, and the poor Twiddlebugs would leave for the day only to return home and find that everything had moved.

In the end, the Twiddlebugs return to their original home.  And as they always were before, they are "snug as a bug in a rug in our own little cookie carton."  (Incidentally, and this has nothing at all to do with my point, my 3-year-old nephew loves this story.  He's obviously his mother's child.  And my mom can recite the whole thing to him without the book.  She read it to us that much.)

I bet you're still wondering why I've been thinking about Twiddlebugs, and about this story specifically.

Sometimes I wonder if I don't have a case of what I've termed Twiddlebug syndrome.  The Twiddlebugs saw something they perceived as better than what they had, only to discover it was too good to be true.  In the end, they realized they'd rather stick with the familiar and the comfortable.

I'm not saying the Twiddlebug story makes me think that it's unwise to ever go outside a comfort zone.  Far from it, actually.  The Twiddlebugs had to leave what they knew in order to discover that what they knew was what they actually loved and wanted.  Does that make sense?

Right now, I'm waiting on three more letters from graduate schools.  And I hope I'll be faced with a decision about where to go.  (I hope at least two of them think I'm smart enough for their programs.)  At the moment, my mom wants me to stay in my own little cookie carton (Utah) for reasons she admits are mostly selfish.  

I, on the other hand, want to experience the dream house if and when I get the chance.  That way, I can begin to determine whether I want to keep exploring or whether I want to return to what I will then know is home--to be snug as a bug in a rug in my own little cookie carton.