“Oh. Okay.” Jamie retreated to the television with his plate. I didn’t mind his lack of curiosity. After all, I was doing this happiness project for myself, and it was bound to make him happier, too. I bent over my paper once more.
Over the next several weeks, as I planned my project, I kept confronting many of the paradoxes of happiness that I’d learned during my earlier research:
Accept myself, and expect more of myself.
Give myself limits to give myself freedom.
Make people happier by acknowledging that they’re not feeling happy.
Plan ahead to be spontaneous; only with careful preparation do I feel carefree.
Accomplish more by working less.
Happiness doesn’t always make me feel happy.
Flawed can be more perfect than perfection.
It’s very hard to make things easier.
My material desires have a spiritual aspect.
Hell is other people. Heaven is other people.
Certainly I had paradoxical wishes for my home. Frank Lloyd Wright wrote, “A true home is the finest ideal of man,” and the challenge lay in that word “true.” What would be true for me? My home should calm me and energize me. It should be a comforting, quiet refuge and a place of excitement and possibility. It should call to my mind the past, the present, and the future. It should be a snuggery of privacy and reflection, but also a gathering place that strengthened my engagement with other people. By making me feel safe, it should embolden me to take risks. I wanted a feeling of home so strong that no matter where I went, I would take that feeling with me; at the same time, I wanted to find adventure without leaving my apartment. My home should suit me, and also suit Jamie, Eliza, and Eleanor. But as I considered this list, I saw that these weren’t, in fact, contradictory desires. My home could be both wading pool and diving board.
I knew that with my home, as with everything that touched my happiness, I could build a happy life only on the foundation of my own nature. It had been a huge relief to me when—quite recently—I’d finally realized that the style of my apartment (and my clothes and my music) didn’t have to reflect the “true” me. Messages like “Your home is a direct representation of your soul!” and “Every choice shows the world the real you!” paralyzed me. What did my choice of throw pillows reflect about my character? Was I the kind of person who would paint a room purple? What was my real taste? I had no idea. My anxiety to do things “right” sometimes made me forget what really mattered to me.
Finally, I’d realized that our apartment didn’t have to reveal any deep truths. I expressed myself in other ways; it was enough that my apartment was a pleasant, comfortable place to live (and had miles of bookshelves). Some people—like my mother—get tremendous creative satisfaction from shaping the look of their homes, but I don’t; I find it exhausting. In this area, I would be authentically inauthentic. In fact, studies suggest, we pay a price for “authenticity.” In a world so full of choices, when we choose deliberately among alternatives, we expend mental energy that then can’t be used for other tasks.
But while I’d stopped fretting about making an authentic choice of coffee table, I nevertheless recognized that a true home must suit the people who live there, by incorporating the elements important to them. When a friend who lives in a beautiful townhouse told me she’d added a sunroom, I couldn’t help asking, “Didn’t you have enough space already?”
“It’s not the space, it’s the light!” she said. “Because it’s a townhouse, it only has windows at the front and back, and it’s very dark, all day long. My husband loves it, but I need a lot of sunshine, and I was always looking for excuses to leave the house during the day, because the lack of light made me uncomfortable. Now I’m so much happier at home.”
Friends with four children equipped a hallway with climbing ropes and bars. Animal-loving friends keep a beehive on their building’s roof. A friend who lives alone celebrates his complete control of his space with delicately painted floors and white furniture. The key, as always, is mindfully to choose what’s right for me—and my family.
Before I started, I asked myself: Why bother to do another happiness project? Wasn’t one enough? After all, I didn’t need to organize a whole project if all I wanted was a working toaster. My first project had done so much to boost my happiness, however, that I hardly hesitated.
Of everything I’d tried, the greatest benefit—greater than the benefit of imitating a spiritual master, or starting my children’s-literature reading groups, or even launching my blog—was my increased appreciation for the happiness I already possessed. True, last year Jamie had been flattened by a bad back, but it hadn’t flared up again. My sister Elizabeth’s Type 1 diabetes was under control. My daughters didn’t squabble—much. Eleanor had finally outgrown her formidable tantrums. When my days were following their ordinary course, it was hard to remember what was truly important, and my happiness project helped charge my life with more gratitude and contentment.
When I first started working on the subject of happiness, I worried that devoting so much energy to becoming happier might be selfish or pointless. After all, I had all the elements of a happy life. If I wanted to be happier, was I a spoiled brat? In a world so full of suffering, was it morally appropriate to seek to be happier? What was “happiness,” anyway, and was it even possible to make myself happier?
These questions no longer troubled me.
Current research shows, and casual observation confirms, that some people are temperamentally more cheerful or gloomy than others, and that people’s ideas and behavior also affect their happiness. About 30 to 50 percent of happiness is genetically determined; about 10 to 20 percent reflects life circumstances (such as age, gender, health, marital status, income, occupation); and the rest is very much influenced by the way we think and act. We possess considerable power to push ourselves to the top or bottom of our natural range through our conscious actions and thoughts.
And although scientists and philosophers require precise definitions (“happiness” has some fifteen academic definitions), I followed the novelists and essayists, and gloried in the expansiveness of the term “happiness.” This sweeping word is wide enough to take in crumbs of meaning, and allows me to argue paradoxes that, although not scientifically accurate, are nevertheless true, such as “Happiness doesn’t always make me feel happy” and “Make people happier by acknowledging that they’re unhappy.” (Not to mention that the term “happiness” is catchier than “frequent positive affect” or “subjective well-being.”) I knew happiness when I felt it, and if other people’s ideas of happiness were more focused on bliss, or contentment, or satisfaction, or peace—well, the broad concept of happiness was big enough for all of us.
While “happiness” might suggest a final, magical destination, the aim of a happiness project isn’t to hit 10 on the 1-to-10 happiness scale and to remain there perpetually; that would be neither realistic nor desirable. I sought not to achieve perfect “happiness,” but rather to become happier. Next week, next year, what can I do to be happier? At certain points in our lives, it may not be possible to be happy, but it is possible to try to be happier—as happy as we can be, under the circumstances—and by doing so, fortify ourselves against adversity. Also, in my view, the opposite of happiness is unhappiness, not depression. Depression, a grave condition demanding urgent attention, occupies its own dark category, and addressing its causes and cures was far beyond the scope of my project. Nevertheless, even a person who isn’t depressed—or even unhappy—can benefit from trying to be happier.
Research shows that happiness is the cause and the effect of many desirable circumstances, such as a strong marriage, more friends, better health, success at work (including making more money), more energy, better self-control, and even longer life. Although people sometimes assume that the happy are self-absorbed and complacent, just the opposite is true. In general, happiness doesn’t make people want to drink daiquiris on the beach; it makes
them want to help rural villagers gain better access to clean water. I knew that when I was happier, I laughed more and yelled less. I stayed calmer when things went wrong—when Eleanor left a magic marker uncapped on a cushion, or when Eliza got a worrisome burn on her arm. As Oscar Wilde wrote, with his characteristic brand of thought-provoking overstatement, “When we are happy we are always good, but when we are good we are not always happy.”
Now, as I contemplated a happiness project centered on the idea of home, I faced a new question: Should the conditions of my life matter to my happiness, at all? If my happiness were built on a sufficiently firm foundation, perhaps my serenity would remain unruffled by the sight of our messy kitchen counters or the sound of my daughters’ bickering.
But I didn’t linger over that question. Although religions and philosophies instruct us to cultivate a happiness free from the influence of worldly circumstances, in my view, whether or not these circumstances should contribute to happiness, they clearly do, for most people—and certainly for me. This area would get serious attention during my happiness project. Nevertheless, although I wanted to embrace the power of home comforts to color my happiness—and I did think their influence was somewhat inescapable—I also sought to build a happiness independent from them.
In my first happiness project, as I’d labored to identify the fundamental principles that underlay happiness, I’d identified Four Splendid Truths (an unexpected side effect of studying happiness is a now-tireless enthusiasm for making numbered lists). Although I’d struggled mightily to articulate these truths, they’re easy to summarize.
To be happy, I need to think about feeling good, feeling bad, and feeling right, in an atmosphere of growth.
One of the best ways to make myself happy is to make other people happy; one of the best ways to make other people happy is to be happy myself.
The days are long, but the years are short.
I’m not happy unless I think I’m happy.
To help me identify which new resolutions to tackle over the next nine months, I consulted the four elements of the First Splendid Truth.
First, “How could I get more feeling good?” More fun, more love, more energy. To be happy, it’s not enough to eliminate the negative; I must also have sources of positive emotions. Also, because I’d gain the most happiness from a particular experience if I anticipated it, savored it as it unfolded, expressed happiness, and recalled the happy memory, I’d take steps to amplify my enjoyment of each of these four stages.
Next, “What sources of feeling bad could I eliminate?” I would use negative feelings and painful pricks of conscience to spotlight areas ripe for change. For instance, I wanted to feel more connected to each member of my family, and to create a calmer and more unhurried atmosphere for all of us.
The third element, feeling right, is more elusive. “Feeling right” is about virtue (doing my duty, living up to my own standards) and also about living the life that’s right for me (in occupation, location, family situation, and so on). Sometimes, choosing to “feel right” means accepting some “feeling bad.” Happiness doesn’t always make me feel happy; I dislike every step of dealing with yearly flu shots for my family, yet this chore also makes me happy. To “feel right,” I’d look for ways to make my home more closely reflect my values, to make sure that the life I’m living is the life I ought to be living. My ordinary routine should reflect the things most important to me.
Although I’d initially underrated its value, the true significance of the fourth element—the atmosphere of growth—had become clearer to me over time. As William Butler Yeats wrote, “Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that, but simply growth. We are happy when we are growing.” Research supports his observation: It’s not goal attainment, but the process of striving after goals—that is, growth—that brings happiness. I wanted an atmosphere of growth to pervade my home: I’d make it more beautiful and functional, fix broken things, clear clutter, enlarge its scope, and become master of my own stuff.
However, because the First Splendid Truth didn’t supply any suggestions about what concrete, manageable resolutions I should follow, I needed to assign myself homework for home work.
Unfortunately, while it’s fun and easy to make a resolution, it’s hard to keep a resolution. Something like 44 percent of Americans make New Year’s resolutions—I always do—but about 80 percent of resolutions are abandoned by mid-February. Many people make and break the same resolution year after year.
One key to sticking to a resolution, for me, is constantly to hold myself accountable. To keep my resolutions under constant review and to mark my progress (or lack thereof), I’d use the Resolutions Chart that I’d created for my first happiness project; on it, I tracked my resolutions against the days of the month. Modeled after Benjamin Franklin’s Virtues Chart, where Franklin plotted the days of the week against the thirteen virtues he aimed to cultivate, this chart held me accountable to myself; knowing that I should do something wasn’t the same thing as actually doing it. For instance, who emphasizes the importance of a healthy diet and exercise more than doctors? Yet almost half of doctors are overweight.
Also, helpfully, the chart would force me to frame my resolutions as concrete actions, more easily scored than vague resolutions such as “Make my home more comfortable” or “Have more fun with my children.” But what should those concrete, specific actions be?
For me, being happier at home wouldn’t be a matter of hanging more pictures or replacing that kitchen table I’d never liked. Mindfulness and self-knowledge would be more important than errands and expense. I wanted to put into practice William Morris’s precept: “The true secret of happiness lies in the taking a genuine interest in all the details of daily life.” Starting in September (September is the other January), I was ready to make a school year’s worth of resolutions, but what nine areas should I tackle?
Ancient philosophers and contemporary scientists agree that a key—likely the key—to happiness is having strong ties to other people, and my relationships with Jamie, Eliza, Eleanor, and my extended family stood at the center of my home. I resolved to address “Marriage,” “Parenthood,” and “Family.”
A sense of personal control is a very important element to happiness; for instance, it’s a much better predictor of happiness than income. At home, my sense of control over my stuff played a huge role in my happiness, as did a feeling of control over my time, so I added “Possessions” and “Time.”
My happiness depended a great deal on my inner attitudes, so I added “Interior Design” (the inward-reflection, rather than shelter-magazine, brand of interior design). At the same time, I knew that my physical experience influenced my emotional experience, so I added “Body.” What else? The place of my home in the world was important, so I added “Neighborhood.”
For the very last month of the school year, I wanted to concentrate on my Third Splendid Truth: “The days are long, but the years are short.” This happiness truth has a particular poignancy in my family life, because my daughters’ childhoods were slipping by so quickly. I wanted to remember “Now.”
During the time that I was plotting my resolutions for the next nine months, I took Eleanor to a five-year-old’s birthday party. While the children chased around, and I tried to resist dipping into the bowl of chocolate-covered pretzels, another mother and I struck up a conversation about our work. With one eye on Eleanor, who was showing more courage than skill on the balance beam, I mentioned a few of my planned resolutions. My new acquaintance said doubtfully, “You make happiness sound like a lot of effort. I study Buddhism, and meditation has changed my life. Do you meditate?”
I was a bit touchy about my failure to try meditation. Did the fact that I couldn’t bring myself to try it even once mean that I was utterly soulless? “Umm, actually, no,” I admitted.
“You should—it’s essential. I go crazy if I don’t meditate for at least thirty minutes each day.”
Uncertain a
s to whether this declaration was the sign of a well-regulated mind or just the opposite, I replied, “Well, my way is to concentrate more on changing my actions than on changing my mental state.”
“I think you’ll find that cultivating inner calm is much more important than worrying about accomplishing a lot of little tasks. You really must meditate if you’re going to say anything about happiness.”
“Hmm,” I answered, trying to sound noncommittal. Then, perhaps too pointedly, I remarked, “I often remind myself that just because something makes me happy doesn’t mean it makes other people happy, and vice versa.” (The fact is, I can become a bit belligerent on the subject of happiness.) Then, happily, it was time to head to the pizza table.
One afternoon at the end of August, in a flash of insight, I managed to articulate a question that had long haunted me, just out of reach of my conscious mind. “Am I ready?” Years before, I’d written a law-journal piece that argued that the law of torts is meant to comfort us in the face of the knowledge that “Something is going to happen”; suddenly, I grasped that my happiness projects were a different sort of attempt to master fate, to ensure that I was disciplined, organized, and well-rested, with my cell phone fully charged and medicine cabinet fully stocked, in order to meet some dreadful, nameless catastrophe. Something is going to happen. Am I ready?
Whenever calamity might strike—as surely it would—I wanted to be prepared, and my new happiness project would help. I thought eagerly of the work I’d do to cull my possessions, to brace my relationships, to husband my time more wisely, and to behave myself better. The weather set a perfect mood as I walked through the neighborhood with my long list of back-to-school errands; the late summer air hung rich with fresh beginnings and new possibilities, with a cooler edge that hinted that winter was coming. There was no time to waste.
Vacation was over, and the end was the beginning. September was here.
Happier at Home: Kiss More, Jump More, Abandon a Project, Read Samuel Johnson, and My Other Experiments in the Practice of Everyday Life Page 2
