Why is it so rare that people write of happiness? Perhaps because woe and sadness are much easier to depict. Besides, what adventure is there in joy? But in feeling it; to state that I am happy is oft enough to recall to any mind the past instances of felicity that have risen throughout the course of life. Nonetheless, I shall attempt to relate the happiness of my life.
What better place to begin than the day’s end, when at last I put away my books, close my eyes and allow my thoughts to wander, to ponder the great many ideas, dreams and memories which flitter constantly about my mind? How warm my body feels as such, pulsing with feeling, goodness. How can I not smile as I rest or even as I recollect lying so placidly in my bed, alone, free. I seek nothing more in life than joy; in those moments I know it constantly. Sometimes I can feel my heartbeat. Sometimes I can feel my soul, at least what I have always considered my soul. What else should I call the waves of feeling which fill me at those times? What else feels of manifest goodness and allows the self to soar as if it was free from this material bond called the body? Such euphoric feelings; it is no wonder I lay for hours both at night and in the morn merely absorbing the grand feelings coursing throughout myself.
And how to describe the joy of awakening when the sunlight has long filtered within my simple room and I have for an unknown length of time lain betwixt the joyous state of half sleep and the equally amazing state of full consciousness? How the dreams do spin, the feelings curiously endeavor to surround the body with peaceful slumber one last time; then the eyes fly open and I am awake. Sweet day it is every time I awaken so naturally, no matter where it is I lay my head. Sometimes there are birds singing outside my window and, after I have opened my curtains fully, I lay in the warm sunshine and listen to their choir. Sometimes it rains; likewise do I lay enraptured by the natural rhythms of the world. Other days I rise immediately and stretch my arms high above me, my body fresh, my mind at ease. A new day has arrived, a new circuit of life; how could I be anything but pleased?
Some days I pick up a book and begin to read, continuing happily a story I quit to enter sleep when my eyes at last grew too heavy to allow my mind the luxury of absorbing the thoughts of another man. Other days I rise immediately and fix my breakfast. Some days I do not eat for many hours; occasionally not at all. Such little relevance does food hold to me, yet when I do eat, such tastes surround my tongue, no matter how plain my meal. I consider often the grand marvel that is this human body.
How shall I state the joy with which I look upon this grand life? How do I describe the twinkling in my eyes as I look upon the world turning, a tree growing, a bird flying, dropping, rising, gliding, his wings flapping until, seemingly tired, he drops slightly in the sky before, strength renewed, his wings once more arise and lift him on his course? Grand is this life in which the wind blows the tall trees, and in their branches images appear. I have oft stared upon a distant fir whose branch appears to be a bear running across the sky. At other times it seems a wolf, while, of course, it is often but a tree, itself magnificent, an incredible feat of architecture of hand unknown. Many times have I walked so deeply enveloped within my own thoughts and observations of this grand world that I forget this strange society we have created for ourselves and simply smiled because I am alive.
Such rapture do I feel to stare upon the beasts of this world, whether the most domestic or fantastically wild, whether they work or play or merely exist such as the cattle, horses and buffalo I have so often seen. To stare into a deer’s eyes as he ponders you; how great is this, how wonderful to know that in him is life. A butterfly passing; how can I not follow the trail he weaves in the sky? A squirrel pauses in his tracks to study me, as likewise I pause in my steps to study him. What have we in common, he and I, this little beast with paws, fur and tail large? Is there a common bond other than the blood which flows within our veins? Is there more? Of course, I cannot answer such questions, but to think them; such great joy do I find in asking. Yes, I find wonder and beauty in most everything. Every action of my day in some way creates within my mind a memory of joy. How can I not love this life? How can I not cherish the being which I have been given?
Without end could I describe the actions of my day, as well as the interactions with my fellow beings, both human and those with less intellect. Conversations I have had fill my mind with pleasant recollection. I remember faces, moments; all of these form me and have created the feather light fabric of my life. I remember a woman, sad, whose eyes lighted when I asked her to tell me of her happiest childhood memory. Tears of joy crept from her eyes as she told of how she and her sister had once dressed in their mother’s clothes and danced away the hours of a distant rainy day. How she laughed when but minutes before she had been ready to cry tears of sadness. We talked a time and then parted. I have never seen her again, but always will her smiling, joyous, face be part of me. I remember watching a child dance, her eyes afire with glee, and in her shadow, I saw her mother; her eyes wore such pride, it raised my spirit higher yet. A man I knew who smiled at all times, and his laughter in even the most poignant moment was a blessing for it was pure and seemed to touch the lips of everyone. Oh these faces, memories, acquaintances; how blessed are they in their joy. Such is this beautiful life. As a leaf blows through an empty winter street, happiness streams its way through the world, passing from one mind to another or erupting unseen from within and dancing outward to assorted nearby faces. I feel the joy of all men. Hopefully they as well feel mine for as long as I have life, it shall abound.
