When Turtles Come Home

by Victoria Hoffarth

  I scored 112. I played badly. I am a bad golfer

  VBH:

  I scored 117, but I’m pleased because I putted well

  VBH:

  Hey, Paul. Look! I think you added wrong. You scored 102!

  Paul:

  Let me see? You’re right. I can’t add. I’m stupid.

  Needless to say, pleasure is part of happiness, and can be heightened by focusing on positive experiences of the present. In fact a pleasurable experience might be mistakenly thought of as happiness because it is about feelings of elation, which may even be intense. One major difference, however, is that pleasure is activity-based whilst happiness is enduring. When the activity passes, pleasure ceases. Pleasure involves our senses—touch, taste, sight, smell, and hearing, whereas happiness is more than simply sensual.

  Seligman advises on how we can savour each pleasurable experience—for instance, luxuriating in the pool on a hot summer day with the feeling of cool water rushing over our body; in other words, maximising the sensuality of the experience. Even after this pleasurable event, we can extend the sensation by talking about the event or taking souvenirs of the occasion. Filipinos love posing for pictures, executing acrobatic poses with friends before the camera, or even simply taking funny selfies. These photographs are excellent reminders of pleasurable occasions!

  On the other hand, we should try and prevent “habituation” from pleasurable experiences. The cake is delicious, especially our first morsel, but the pleasure decreases with each successive bite. The secret is either to space out the cake-eating, or alternatively have less of the same good thing. Without this exercise of a bit of self-discipline, we risk either getting addicted to the experience so that we want an ever bigger piece in order to enjoy the same level of satisfaction, or we become jaded and lose interest. As the saying goes, “It pays to leave the dining table a bit hungry”.

  Perhaps the most significant attitude towards our present state is the idea of “flow”, as mentioned earlier. The word was coined by the Hungarian psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, who developed a whole theory behind it. “Flow”, he said, is a state of being when we are totally absorbed in what we are doing so that time stops. We lose awareness not only of time, but also of place, and indeed of ourselves. Often our involvement becomes seemingly effortless as there is an absence of feeling, including feelings of pleasure. It is only in retrospect that we find the experience fulfilling.

  How do we achieve “flow”? Csikzentmihalyi starts his analysis with self-knowledge, i.e. knowing our talents, and our strengths and virtues. Obviously, if we cannot carry a tune in a bucket, there is no sense in aspiring for “flow” whilst singing an opera aria. Unfortunately, talent is one of those things about which we can do nothing. But there are a couple of other factors complementing talent, which we can enhance with practice: our skills and virtues, coupled with ingenuity and perseverance.

  In my own case, I have a great love for learning, which I inherited from my father. I have another strength—that of a sense of fairness. I believe that I should give others what is due them, but also that I should have what is due me. Teaching, which plays on my love for learning, would have been an ideal profession for me. However, later in life, I decided I needed more money if I were to enjoy some freedom and autonomy, important values for me. I needed to be financially independent. I therefore moved from a career of teaching where I often experienced “flow” but little cash—one of my many trade-offs in life. First, I transitioned into international consulting despite the fact that I had developed a fear of flying. As freelance consultancy was a feast-or-famine type of self-employment, I decided to go into full entrepreneurship—entering the property renovation sector, and renting out or selling refurbished apartments. The business did afford me more cash, and in time, financial independence, but at great cost because instead of using my strengths, I played on my weaknesses. These included my short temper and lack of patience with contactors, real estate agents, property managers, tenants, lawyers, and bankers. This was compounded by my impression that many of them didn’t play by the rules of fairness. As I also lacked social intelligence, I ended up confronting them more often than was necessary, adding to my stress-ridden life.

  Seligman proposes recrafting activities (such as my forays into real estate), which we might need to do but which we might also find unfulfilling, by inserting and using our strengths and re-labelling the nature of these jobs. When I was undergoing my treatment for breast cancer in a London hospital, I had a treatment package, which included sessions with a psychotherapist and a masseuse. My masseuse always greeted me warmly when I arrived in her nice-smelling little room tucked away in the far corner of the hospital. We hugged before and after the massage and soon became friends. I told her about how I stopped seeing the psychotherapist of the hospital after only one session because she (the psychotherapist) made me feel worse. Instead, my masseuse became my confidante. Although she wasn’t a Catholic nor was she particularly religious, we talked about God and I confided that I now felt close to God, closer in fact than I’d ever been. But what, I asked, if I forgot Him again if and when I felt better? I still remember her assurances: she knew I would never forget, simply because I didn’t want to. She calmed me down so much that when my massage sessions were finally completed, I gave her a bunch of flowers. I forgot I was not a touchy-feely person as I enjoyed her warm hugs and learned to reciprocate them. Later, I saw the flowers in a beautiful vase by the reception room. She came out when she heard I was there and showed me the flowers. “I want all my patients to see something beautiful and feel a bit brighter during these dead days of winter.”

  Now I see she didn’t think she was a masseuse, but instead a care provider looking after the welfare of her patients. One of her strengths was the virtue of spirituality, and she used it in order to ease the suffering of others during some of the most difficult times of their lives. She didn’t have a mundane job; she had a calling.

  Responding to a calling is an important ingredient of happiness. And I think most any job can be made into a calling: so can a construction worker think that by laying pipes he can improve people’s lives. More than merely a pleasant life, responding to our calling leads us to a full life. I once read an anecdote about three stonecutters. The first stonecutter was asked, “Why do you cut stones?” He replied, “I do an honest work for an honest day’s pay.” The second cutter was asked, “Why do you cut stones?” He replied, “I want to be the best stonecutter in the world.” The third stonecutter was asked, “Why do you cut stones?” He replied, “I am building a cathedral.” The first stonecutter had a job, the second a career, and the third a calling.

  The first stonecutter worked for a reward that was extrinsic to the job. For many of us, it is enough; we may get our enjoyment elsewhere but need the maintenance of a stable income. The second cutter’s reward is an intrinsic satisfaction of doing something well—thus many professionals and artists achieve “flow”, that all-embracing loss of self-consciousness in the process of creation. For many, that is indeed a sufficient purpose for their lives and they lead good, meaningful lives. The third stonecutter possesses something even more—a calling, a sense of purpose bigger than themselves. It is said that Nelson Mandela led a happy life although he spent twenty-seven years of it in a tiny prison cell. His calling was to end apartheid in South Africa.

  Along with a sense of purpose is a need for an anchor—a peace of mind that doesn’t bend with the ebb and flow of life’s punches, insuring that our ship of life is on an even keel, protected from storms as the seasons roll. Achieving meaning in what we do is one such anchor. Transferring the focus of our attention away from ourselves and onto others is yet another anchor. Thus, we build empathy, compassion, and kindness—all essential ingredients to happiness.

  As well as any g
ood Christian, an atheist can of course lead a full life by responding to a calling. But in my case, it has been helped by developing a sense of spirituality and transcendence, the awareness that there is something or Someone beyond what I can see around me, and also beyond the test of time. In the preceding chapter, I wrote about my personal search for truth. Science and its focus on facts to me were a dead end. Philosophy and its focus on reason was equally lacking in resonance. I found my truth through intuition, by accepting my experiences even though they eluded my understanding. For want of a better word, let’s call it mysticism. At Mass, when the priest raises the host and cup of wine and calls them the body and blood of Christ, it is not necessary to believe in the dogma of transubstantiation to feel that you are participating collectively in something holy. If, as Joseph Campbell says, the essence of life is experience, surely meaning cannot be far behind.

  The Dalai Lama proposes a tool for emptying out our minds and shutting out the ego. That, of course, is meditation. A calm mind loses its need to control. Even the big idea of needing to be loved loses its grip on us, and we realise that we often have a mistaken belief that being loved is a pre-condition for happiness. Being loved is not as common an experience as many of us think , and we are simply courting hurt and disappointment if we expect it.

  We may be tempted to say this is all well and good, but to paraphrase Shakespeare, to do is not as easy as to know what is good to do. Perhaps, then, we can be reminded from previous chapters of this book how applying the theory of cognitive dissonance can show us the way to form good habits. For instance, we can decide that instead of expecting to receive love, an often scarce experience indeed, we can give it. If we begin with the simple act of regularly helping others, even if we don’t feel particularly kind or caring, we will eventually develop genuine feelings of compassion as our actions will seek to align themselves with our thoughts and feelings.

  Going back to the bee and the fly experiment, I feel there is something loveable about the fly and how it achieved freedom by giving up its need for control, something I admit is still hard for me to do. Among my kababayans, this low-need for control contributes to more relaxed lives.

  *

  One day, right after he got his pay, my gardener baptised his infant son. He invited the whole neighbourhood for a big meal, blowing his whole pay and more. Viewed from the outside, they looked like a happy lot with constant laughter in the air. They looked forward to many more baptisms, fiestas, and birthdays, each of which would call for another celebration. Nonetheless, I scolded him. “Ma’am, I only want to share my happy news,” was the answer. “What will you do for the next baptism or fiesta or birthday?” Bahala na. I think he considered money was truly his only once he had spent it.

  I am not subscribing to my gardener’s attitude, but simply respond to the question of why Filipinos, rightly or wrongly, are regarded as a happy people. Despite the poverty in the country, why is the Philippines usually ranked relatively high in the world happiness index fashioned by Western consultants? I looked at the set of criteria used and saw how the country could have achieved the position it often holds: aside from income and healthy life expectancy, many indicators often used for happiness include social support, trust, and generosity. The Philippines has an abundance of those, especially social support and generosity. In other studies where indexes such as honesty and good governance were added, the country scored quite a bit lower. This is understandable, as “honesty” or fairness is positively correlated with the notion of private as opposed to collective ownership of goods, as well as, to economic prosperity. (The idea of good governance and corruption were already discussed in a previous chapter.)

  In addition to the happiness indicators mentioned above are such reasons as—I will hazard a guess—the Filipinos’ comparatively high happiness potential at birth, and possibly, a number of other cultural characteristics as well: their collectivistic patterns of relationships, their sensuality, and a general celebration of life. This is coupled with the balaha na philosophy, or a sense of fatalism, that gives rise to a low need for control and a high tolerance for ambiguity, complemented by a circular time orientation. These may not lead to increased productivity, as deadlines for tasks are not taken seriously, but it makes for a more carefree lifestyle, which in turn keeps anxiety and loneliness at bay. Further, Filipinos’ religious if not necessarily spiritual beliefs provide an anchor during difficult times. The costs of these attitudes are of course also hefty, as the country has remained impoverished. It is commonly assumed that poverty, especially when basic needs are not met, is a major cause of unhappiness.

  What is it, then, that Filipinos have to offer that caused me, an amphibian, to decide to settle here rather than elsewhere? Friends from abroad ask me why I have come back when I was so nicely settled in London with plans to retire in Vancouver. They read about the poverty, the lack of infrastructure, and they think Manila is a throwback from the physical comforts, order, and security offered by London or Vancouver. It is not an uncommon question asked of amphibians who return to their poor homelands after spending years in richer and more developed countries. The other day, I was watching a BBC interview of the famous personality who had enjoyed great success in both the US and the UK. He was asked the same question: after all these years of success, why did he decide to go back to his country, which was much poorer and less developed than both the US and the UK?

  To me, it is not only the idea of home, but also the fact that, objectively, the Philippines has much to offer, especially to those who do not have financial problems and can afford to have a comfortable lifestyle. Perhaps, we can call my kababayans pleasure-seekers rather than a truly happy people—my guess is that there are probably as many happy Filipinos as unhappy ones. But we cannot deny that Philippine culture itself promotes a highly supportive environment. A bit late, but I have started to more seriously cultivate friends, do my share towards genuinely caring for others, much as my kababayans have demonstrated to me.

  When my husband died, for example, I thought of the invaluable support of friends. He didn’t have a wake in Germany as he didn’t have too many relations. I now wish we had been in the Philippines and had a proper Philippine wake. It could have been more helpful to Paul and me during the many difficult days and months ahead.

  This feeling has been reinforced by my observations with regards to Philippine wakes. Unlike many cultures in the West, the Filipinos’ mechanism of collective mourning is notable. Through large wakes, the sharp sting of bereavement and grief is postponed until such a time that it becomes more manageable. The distraction of eating-fests give emotional support to the bereaved, even if many of us cannot mourn with them. We all have a right not to show emotion, or even not to feel it, nonetheless we give our support simply by our very presence. At my age when family and friends are starting to die, attending wakes can be a regular social affair where we meet other friends and long-lost relatives. Contrast this to rich, lonely people dying alone in the more individualistic countries of Europe and America.

  Finally, if all else fails, make a joke of it. The Philippines is the only country in Southeast Asia where fatalism meets a good sense of humour.

  A Window to the World

  This book would be incomplete if we didn’t address the increasing challenges we face in the world today. The English poet John Donne writes:

  No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece

  of the continent, a part of the main… any man’s death

  diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and

  therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;

  it tolls for thee.

  I was in the UK at the turn of the 21st century. I remember feeling very optimistic then, thinking that the world was at a new dawn of hope. Communism proved to have been an experiment of the 20th century that failed. The Soviet Union had rid itself of its malign influences and the world co
uld now focus its energies towards creating a new order with greater freedom and humanity.

  In less than two years, this hope would be turned on its head, for a new menace exploded to replace communism: the evil of terrorism coming from fundamentalist Middle Eastern groups, using Islam as their banner. It struck the heart of America in the early years of the new century, followed by the misconceived American invasion of Iraq, which not only destroyed a nation but also largely threw the whole region into chaos. In the succeeding years, these terrorists would strike cruelly all over the world at random places, in random times, towards random lives, causing a great many ordinary people to cower in fear.

  If I had thought Southeast Asia and the Philippines were relatively immune, I soon learned that Al-Qaeda had spread its tentacles far and wide, as far as southern Philippines. Later, ISIS itself used the island of Mindanao, a Muslim enclave, as its training ground. Intense fighting ensued there where the brother-in-law of a friend who was in the military was killed, and the foreign husband of another friend had to escape the beach house he had so carefully built for his retirement when Western tourists were kidnapped from the neighbouring island.

  Additionally, America, the only superpower left in the world, would prove less than a responsible leader. American capitalism has always been stark. It rewards as it punishes, leaving no room for the weak and the “losers” in a highly competitive society. A new world economic crisis would loom before the end of the first decade because of the power of greed. “Greed is good,” said the banker Gordon Gekko in the film Wall Street. It was the greed of America’s biggest banks that would lead into a global financial earthquake of 2008.

  It is claimed that when America sneezes, the rest of the world catches a cold. Indeed, the economies of Europe and the rest of the world marched according to the drumbeat of the Great American Recession of 2008. By the time the skies began to clear, the world looked different. Increasing income inequality became more apparent and many resented the perceived excesses of the rich and the powerful. This resentment was exacerbated by the common perception that those who had contributed to their misfortunes were left relatively unscathed. Bankers, their rating agencies, heads of some corporations considered too big to fail were rescued by their governments, and in due course, many simply picked up where they had left off. The Wall Street Journal states that by 2012, the average American CEO, including those in the banking and finance industry, was making 350 times the average employee’s salary. Four decades ago, figures from the Economic Policy Institute indicated it was only thirty times. This slide into widening income inequality was not only true of America but had spread to most of the rest of the world, including the Philippines, which was already itself suffering from a great divide between the rich and the poor.