I am happy. There. I said it. Wrote it, looking over my shoulder for what comes next. Because everyone knows that the minute you say you are happy something comes along to snatch it away. And so I play the game, think no, things aren't that good, I mean, we owe lots of taxes, and Bryan's been working so hard lately, too hard...my fingers pulling at the strings of the fabric of a make-believe mechanism that unravels the days into happening just so. See? I'm not that happy. And then someone says something in a way that tightens my tongue and pulls me sideways so that everything is right again in that it is wrong. I am unhappy. I am safe.
What is it about happiness that embarrasses me so? The unconscious possibly-puritanical belief that it is somehow better to shun the pleasure of being at peace? When did annoyance become my go-to, fall-back state of being?
Because I am happy.
I watch my kids and feel full of time. Full of hyperbole, the palm of my hand flat across rounded bellies. Lucky, although luck, too, hints at something undeserved or limited. No, what I feel is absolute unabashed joy. Yes, silly, chicken, tickle, stupid words that make them smile and so I say them even when they don't make sense. Because I have to remind myself that being unhappy doesn't keep me safe just as living my happiness doesn't make it any more likely that this weekend it will rain.
|Ozzy at the beach, heading straight for the riptide with absolute glee. This kid's going to teach me a lot, I can tell.|