Strength For Destination Happiness

Everyone in the world has his or her own personal vision of happiness. For some it’s monetary riches, others successful careers and others a large family. These images of how life is supposed to be are what keep us studying, working and dreaming.

Sometimes the path to being happy is smooth and clear as day. But other times, it’s not as obvious and we slowly move down a bumpy dirt road that leads nowhere. So where do we turn to get on the expressway to Destination Happiness? Where do we find the strength?

When I turned thirty-years old back in 1999, I came to the conclusion that I wasn’t happy. Many of my goals meant nothing to me, but for one reason or another, I chose them in order to get to that one place where I thought my frown would turn upside down.

The problem with my logic at the time was thinking that happiness was a place I could reach by following others. But it’s really more of a feeling that can only be designed by a fearful and powerful organ that has caused many of us pain before; the heart.

So I made several changes in my life including quitting my job and moving to New York City to study writing. But the biggest decision I made was to start communicating with a person I didn’t really trust or know, but who was key in my decision making process if I was ever going to find happiness. That person was myself.

I began keeping a journal. First, I wrote down goals to give me some sort of direction. Then I described how I would reach these goals and what accomplishing them would bring me.

I carried my journal with me everywhere and took time to write in parks, cafes and on the subway. The pages became filled with descriptions of people and places and notes on moments when I smiled and laughed. Anytime loneliness or fear came knocking at my door, I grabbed my best friend and found a spot where we could socialize and solve the world’s problems. The clouds smothering happiness began to float away.

Every January since the year 2000, I’ve bought a new journal. In a wooden box in my closet are big ones, small ones and medium sized ones. Some are red, brown, black and blue and have leather, wooden or cardboard covers. But they all serve the same purpose; to show me where I am at a moment in time and to tell me where to go next.

I pulled the journals out recently to find the date of a past event. As I was flipping through the pages of one from my first year in New York, a sentence spoke to me.

“Please give me the strength.”

I ended up reading over half the journal, and then only stopped to pick up a different one. I turned page after page amazed by how different my life was in Manhattan compared to now living on a farm with my mom in Cow Island. Phrases leaped from the page and held me captive for several minutes.

“It scares me when I don’t know what’s going to happen next. But it bores me when I do.”

“I just sold my book!!! I can’t believe this is happening.”

“I’m so tired of being sad. I want to be happy.”

“I sold George Hamilton a tie at Ralph Lauren today. He really is as tanned as he is on television.”

All of my worst and best moments were laid out on paper right in front of me. I could drop all the journals off at a therapist’s office and ask him/her to read through them and get back to me with what I needed to be happy for the rest of my life. But as I flipped through more and more of the pages, I realized that maybe that wasn’t possible.

“I’m moving to Paris to study French! I’m so happy.”

“Just got laid off. Again. Will I ever get to be happy?”

“My family is coming to visit me!”

“I feel like someone punched me in the gut with a fistful of depression. Is happiness a place someone made up to sell greeting cards and fried chicken?”

Reading through the last decade of my life in a few hours was an emotional roller coaster for me. The ups and downs, the twists and turns, the detours, road blocks and potholes, all to find a place that only existed for a limited time.

I needed a break from my past, and went to the present day kitchen, where my mom was just putting a bowl of cantaloupe down on the table. She told me to sit and that lunch would be ready soon.

Then she asked, “What are you writing about?”

It was a loaded question, because every time I answered it, she quickly asked me how I knew about that subject.

“What do you know about careers?”

“What do you know about gardening?”

“What do you know about growing up on a farm?”

I had to tell her something or it would appear like I was keeping a secret from her. If I told her about the journals, she’d demand to read them. As punishment for not showing them to her before, she’d make me cut her toenails while she flipped through the pages of my most private moments.

“Happiness,” I responded.

“Happiness?” she asked. “What do you know about happiness?”

It was a tough question to answer, and could change in a few seconds both before or after I vocalized it. Destination Happiness was more like a Grey Hound bus than an actual place. It traveled as much as I did and the moments our paths crossed had an undefined time limit. My journals had taught me that, and their lesson was still fresh in my memory.

“Apparently I know nothing about happiness,” I laughed. “But I know I’m happy now. And I could be even happier if you stopped harassing me and hurried up with lunch.”

It doesn’t upset me that the feeling of happiness can depart at any time. Through my journals, I will be able to track it so we can be together again. With the power of my mom’s chicken stew, and pages mapping out who I am and where I’m headed, I’ll always be able to find the emotion of happy. I will always be able to find the strength.