The Pursuit of Happiness...?

During this Independence Day weekend, I have been inevitably drawn to reflect on those famous words from the opening of the US Constitution:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

We all just want to be happy, right? We're not normal if we're not seeking more happiness, are we? It's our right, our prerogative, and our natural drive. 

But is it, really for all of us?

Sitting in one of the few seasons I've been given for introspection in recent years - this glorious, glorious summer after the bitterest Chicago winter - I've realized something important. Maybe happiness really isn't that important, after all. Or rather, maybe that pursuit just makes us more miserable.

Happiness is a fleeting emotion, a temporary state. We work so hard to get the things that we think will make us happy. Achieve the goals! Win the prize! Earn the fame, the attention, the money, the opportunity, the audience! But as soon as it's over, things seem darker, and bleaker, than they were to begin with. The lack of happiness at the end of the pursuit is far more depressing than the situation without it was in the first place. The higher the mountaintops, the deeper the valleys become by comparison. And the harder it becomes to climb back out of them.

I've spent so much time over the years feeling guilty because I didn't feel happy, or because I somehow wasn't living up to the immense expectations put upon me by early successes and unanticipated achievements. As soon as you start achieving, then it's anticipated that you will continue to do so, at a rate and level that continues to exceed the increasingly high expectations with every expectation-exceeding hurdle jumped. Nothing is ever enough. And the crippling "meh"ness that sinks in makes it ever harder to care, or to dig out. But this week I've realized something. Something freeing, as depressing as it may otherwise seem:

My default mood and state of being is not happiness. My default is melancholy.

When things are just "fine", when everything is "ok", when nothing is wrong but it's also not a mountaintop moment, my default demeanor is one of a quiet, somewhat lonely, sadness. Not as deep as depression (though it's always hiding in the shadows for me, too), but a general malaise that continuously rides alongside me. 

And you know what? It's ok.

I've spent more hours feeling anxious that I didn't feel happier, getting down on myself for not doing more, getting stagnated by the weight of my own mood... and for what? It certainly hasn't helped anything. I haven't gained any more joy in my life by beating myself up for not feeling it. Moreover, it's kept me down more than the melancholy itself has. I've felt so crippled by not feeling happy that it's stopped me from pursuing things that really matter to me, and it's often paralyzed me from acting in ways that might secure that happiness, whether personally or professionally. 

So from now on, I'm going to accept that melancholy is just going to be riding alongside me, in whatever adventure I face next. And it's not going to stop me anymore. Because it's my default. It's a given. So when joy sneaks up and throws confetti in my face, I can appreciate the difference all the more.

Screw pursuing happiness. I'm just going to pursue the interesting, regardless of emotion, and perhaps happiness will find me from time to time along the way.

On Writing

I wish I were a better writer. Or, rather, I wish that I still wrote often enough to work the skills that are still lying dormant inside me, somewhere.

It’s an odd thing: writing has been a source of both intense frustration and supremest enjoyment at so many times in my life. Some of the most anguished, visceral memories from my undergraduate years have to do with late nights struggling over a writing seminar paper or my thesis… and many of the most freeing, exciting ones from my high school years have to do with that life that now seems so far away, when I fancied myself a poet. Or even in the joy and accomplishment associated with finishing, perfecting, and breathing life into those very papers and the thesis that I thought threatened to take my very lifeblood and sanity. Not to mention my consistently infrequent but ever-continuing journaling habits, as a way to process the world. Growing from childhood “Dear Diary, today I met a boy…” entries (name that reference… yes I just went there) to my now pseudo-poetic, oftentimes partially illustrated, nonlinear ramblings in my precious unlined moleskine. Writing is in integral part of who I am and how I interact with the world.

Yet, I feel frustrated in my inability to do it often enough or well enough anymore to feel satisfied. I continually wish that I could pursue being a contemporary Renaissance woman, intellectually curious and academically involved in researching and thinking through multiple fields, and engaged in multiple artistic passions at the same time. At the same time, I let everyday life muck up the time I might have to really chase these passions, and feel almost guilty about doing it; that somehow, if I put too much time into developing something that isn’t singing/acting/language study/dreams of arts diplomacy (ok, so the diplomacy one is a bit of a curveball, admittedly)… if I put too much time into other things, I’ll never succeed in the primary career which I’m chasing. Of course, I have friends who buck this trend and give me hope: the businesswoman with the successful violin/orchestra management career, the tenor who’s a phenomenal writer, the embryology researcher who teaches yoga and still maintains a performing schedule as a jazz drummer… They do it. So why do I struggle so much to do the same? Being interdisciplinary and over-involved has always been all but a trademark of mine. So what’s going on? Age? (ugh.) Coming to another point of life where I have to over-specialize a bit to succeed in any of the things I’m trying to do? God’s hand directing me into the areas where I can most truly thrive and have the biggest impact or to live out the plan He’s got for me, even though I can’t see it? Who knows, really. Not me.

But I do know this: I miss writing. I miss practicing yoga. I miss sketching on a regular basis. I miss feeling proficient in and dedicated to these other areas. These things, I can find time to do. I can make that time. And I only hope that, in doing so, they might strengthen and improve my artistry in all areas.

Here’s to the new practicing routine.

Aching

Tonight, I have an absolutely wretched, mind-splitting headache. And I have no idea why. I also have a feeling that my not being able to figure out the origin of the headache may be bothering me more than the horrendous headache itself.

I've realized something about myself: I like to try to find the logic in absolutely everything in life. This has two main effects.

1. I am continually interested in everything. Every area of study, every story, every person, every place. Which explains why I'm so into the whole interdisciplinary trend, and which I think is probably a pretty positive quality here.
2. I drive myself absolutely insane with the areas of life that I simply cannot explain. When I am sad, or lonely, or frustrated, or depressed, etc., (or have a random ache or pain) and cannot immediately figure out where that feeling is coming from, I feel even worse. However, once I can come up with a logical source, the issue and the feeling is almost always resolved to a certain extent.
   

This could explain why/how I drive myself as crazy as I do. Also, makes sense of my artistic impulses: so much of what I do involves using my past experiences - both good and bad - and tapping the emotional memory content again and again. Always reprocessing the past, drawing on it, and learning from it again, hopefully healing a little more each time. But still digging back into the thick of it repeatedly. Taking introspection to a level where it becomes performance for however many people will be there to watch.

No wonder musicians are as crazy/tortured as we are. Yet able to deal with it, somehow, most of the time. It's like we're going through self-therapy all the time. But publicly, on a stage and with an audience to see every raw bit of embarrassment, pain, and breakthrough.

And we love it. Psychos.

Displacement

Sometimes, I forget what city or country I'm in.

It happens particularly when I go somewhere new by myself, where there are no familiar 'reference people' to clearly tell me where I am. Or if someone from a past life-place has come to visit and we discover somewhere new together. Or if I'm reading a book that takes place in one of my former areas and get mentally transported to that place.

This morning, for example. House-sitting in the Chicago suburbs, I sit down to read a UK edition of a novel that takes place in New York. I'm reading about Central Park, but the spellings and word choice convince me that I'm clearly reading from the British perspective, so I look up at the end of the chapter and reminisce about how lovely the Park would be on a sunny morning like today, so far away across the ocean... and then realize that it's not across an ocean at all. Somehow I've found that my body is in the Chicago area, which suddenly seems lacking simply because it's not where my brain or my book had put me at the time of reading.

I am continually 'displaced'. Not sure how this realization makes me feel.

On Blogging

I know. What you're all thinking (myself included) is that the last thing this world needs is yet another blog about blogging. It's terribly self-referential, self-important, and more often than not just incredibly annoying. But here we are.

The truth is this: I have tremendous respect for regular, thoughtful bloggers.

How many times have I begun blogs that didn't last past the third, or second, or sometimes even first entry? How many of my friends can say the same thing? Sure, I tweet, I use facebook, but both of those actions are almost entirely mindless and require a 4-second attention span. This activity, on the other hand, actually requires a bit more thought for quite a bit longer. (I have to admit, I got completely distracted by a bird outside the window for about half a minute in the middle of the past sentence... even only this far in. Really, brain?) Well, at least it requires it for longer. We all wish that everyone would use a bit more thought.

I recently read a surprisingly interesting blog post about blogging (if I can somehow find it again, I'll eventually put a link in here... not happening easily right now), where the author spoke of the blogger's duty to his or her readers. To keep going, to make their writing interesting, truthful and relevant, and to maintain some sort of consistent tone so that their readers know how to interact with what they publish. I found myself thinking what a great post it was, how wonderful this blogger was, and how rubbish all of those terrible, uneven, mindless blogs were that clutter up the internet, un-updated and without sense...

Then I looked in the mirror.

Fine. New commitment. New blog. (Well, considering this one only had one post of one line... essentially new). All going along with my still new-ish city.

Let's see how we do.

Chicago.

New city. New academic course. New life stage. Clearly, time for a new blog.