Hello, Happiness

Hello, Happiness.

You fickle creature, you. Yesterday you were nearly absent. Although the rain fell, (and I love the rain), I finished Mr. and Mrs. Smith with a loved one, and I spent the majority of the day reading a graphic novel rich with exciting pictures, mystery, and complex dialogue, I ended the day disheartened. I ate a salad, I folded the clothing in my bedroom, listened to “How He Loves” by David Crowder, and dismissed a few silent tears before nodding off.

Today, I have been awake since 0700, finished four classes, and am off to a lab. It snowed this morning, and I did not get any coffee. Also, my fingers are acting spastic, as if they have suddenly forgotten which finger types which key…a mind of their own . Monday I have a Psychology exam, and Friday two papers are due—one is eight pages long. I need to make an appointment for my wisdom teeth removal, and am uninsured (goodbye, rainy day savings.) Yet I walk with lightness, my head is clear, and the remnants of a headache have passed. I am optimistic for this next week—excited! I am ready to enter my motivation zone, where all else goes grey except for my high-intensity, focused, ability to succeed. I am ready to conquer.

But why am I happy? Emily Bronte’s lines from The Prisoner surface, as I brood:

“When, if my spirit's sky was full of flashes warm,
I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunder-storm.”

I do not always understand the inconsistencies of happiness and sadness. Their provocateurs, their sources, their stimulants…I do not know. Some are obvious, like a direct positive correlation between exercise and positive mood, or the number of moments within a day I emotionally connect with someone, but other drivers of mood baffle me, Just when I think I know myself, it seems I do not.

But, I suppose I need not understand this moment to enjoy it. Life is not long enough to permit a thorough understanding of everything, and sometimes we need just "be." So, this moment is one to smile at the students passing me, plant an extra kiss of the cheek of my beloved, and stop fretting about all the stress I am missing while being happy. Maybe I feel out of control, out of attention when I am happy. Maybe that’s why it throws me off. But if there were one state by which to measure my action, one context of “default me,” a baseline standard of Anjeli upon which to relate variability—I certainly would choose this. Wouldn't you?

To the Boy

            I’m going to have a little one, someday.  I know it.  Shirtless and darting around on dirty toes, I see his diapered form-- my little boy.  His shoulder blades will curve like unborn wings propelling him into infinity and beyond.  He will carry himself, from his dark eyelashes to curvy belly with mischief, wonder, and curiosity.  My heart grabs inside when I imagine you.  My son, you will have a beautiful mind.  You will be courageous, adventurous, and never miss humour.  You'll gift me with discreet kisses when no one is looking; but occasionally even when they are.  Your appetite for knowledge will be insatiable; I will spend our days answering your questions and stopping you from electrocution as you disassemble my hairdryer.  You’ll reflect your father; from his sturdy stance to the way he keeps a watchful eye out for me.  

Some days you’ll fall down.  With bloodied knees and bits of gravel embedded in your palms, with slumped shoulders you’ll come to me, ashamed of your hurt.  I’ll scoop you up, my baby, and set you into a warm bath.  The bubbles will nearly hide your small stature, and I’ll put a plop of foam on your head to make you laugh.  The muddy tears from your blushed cheeks I’ll wipe away with a washrag, and try my best to be gentle as I clean your scrapes.  I’ll help you not fear water, but you’ll still cling to me as I pour cupfuls over your soapy head to rinse the suds from your hair.  Ever speculative, you'll call the purpose into question, yet not doubt my intent.  An hour may pass.  I'll watch you race plastic boats around turbulent bath waters.  I'll wonder at your attentiveness, coexisting with your wandering imagination. The water will cool, and I’ll wrap a towel around your goose bumped skin and briskly dry your pink body.  Maybe we’ll style your hair with mousse.  Dad will not be amused.  We’ll think it’s hilarious.

           Boy, I cannot wait to meet you.