In a 1985 issue of the Black Warrior Review, I came across "A Poet's Alphabet" by William Matthews. I couldn't keep two lines in particular from running through my head:
"Happiness is not wholly an accident, some prosperous suburb of luck. We create our work, and the work changes us."
When I looked back on how my understanding of happiness has changed over the years, it's hard to recognize myself (as opposed to my culture and conditioning) in previous iterations. Happiness is so many things- and happiness is mistaken for so many other things.
Happiness is not a decent job with medical benefits. That's just a lucrative career.
Happiness is not a prodiguous harvest of heirloom tomatoes. That's just gazpacho.
Happiness is not a purple silk bustier. That's just a prop. Possibly a mis-en-scene.
Happiness is not front-row seats at Carnegie Hall. That's just being loaded.
Happiness is not "well-behaved", finely-groomed children tucked into church pews. That's just control.
Happiness is not a 20-year wedding anniversary. That's just modern economics.
Happiness is not a new puppy. That's just a pet.
Happiness is not winning the Georgia State Lottery. That's just wasted money.
Happiness is not discovering a 24-hour strip club that serves burgers just opened on your street. That's just entitlement.
Happiness is somewhere between making out with a man on Coney Island and the cheap mermaid necklace you keep as a souvenir.
Not the thing itself- just the way it throws you back against the jetties, the way it breaks you a little, then leaves you awestruck.
