The Happiness Equation
Friday, December 26, 2008
Yesterday I got lucky as I set out on my long, winter walk: My son (just then knocking the soccer ball around in the back yard), whacked the thing into a yardly corner and volunteered to come along. He's taller than I am and walks straighter than he ever has. His features are sui generis, chiseled; his hair is buzzed and dark. His eyes would be the color of night except there's so much light in them, and whenever we're together alone, he begins, "So, Mom. How have you been?" As if there is more to any of us than the face we put out upon a day. And of course there is.
We got to talking about The Happiness Equation (Bridget Grenville-Cleave, Ilona Boniwell), a stocking stuffer of a book I'd given him. It's a fun book, if you have an interest (as my son forever has) in decoding one's inner life. You read along and you quantify your state of mind—giving yourself five points, for example, if you have a pet, subtracting five if you are anxiety prone, and on and on. Journaling increases your happiness, but not if you're stuck in the rut of writing down what went wrong. Material wealth is a downer (sorry, Paris). Idolizing celebrities will put you in the basement. Watching TV is you being stuck in a mucky rut, and choice overload isn't a condition to be envied. It's commonsense, obviously, but it's also cleverly set out, perfect for a kid like mine who said just the other day, "I've realized lately that we're not really meant to find the answers to all our questions. That if we did that, we'd be done."
We walked, and it was cold. We walked, and we talked about life—old happiness and new happiness, childhood regrets, nascent opportunities, the power of passion. We walked past my son's old elementary school and remembered. We walked past houses that have been torn down and replaced since he went off to school. We walked talking, and the three Christmas meals that I had fretted over were done, and the packages all had been wrapped and unwrapped, and the house was ridiculously clean (because yes, I overdo the housecleaning thing, which could put a dent not just on my own but on others' happiness) and there was nothing to worry over, nothing to do but keep walking beside my lithe son. I was writing my own Happiness Equation, just then. Or perhaps he was writing it for me.
