Photo courtesy of NASA and the JWST. You can’t ask for better fireworks.
Okay, I know it’s cliché, but I’m writing a New Year’s post. I’m not going to enumerate my resolutions for the coming year, or wax reminiscent about 2023, or pat myself on the back for my accomplishments over the last twelve months, or publicly flail myself for my yearly shortcomings. I don’t like to make New Year’s resolutions. For someone of my specific antiauthoritarian bent, a list of things I require of myself will be just as defied as a list of external demands. No, I fool myself into ambitious achievement by means of determining what I want, and the methods I must employ to manifest those desires. I then focus on refining the methods, not on the outcome. Like climbing a hill, it’s easier to look at the ground ahead and ignore how far you still have to go. Sure, it sounds similar to the tradition, but it isn’t, I promise. Because I’m not setting anything in stone. No boxes to tick. There are no hard edges to happiness. And isn’t that what we’re all really striving for?
I started reading John Ajvide Lindqvist’s Little Star this week. I’ll spare you my opinion, other than to say I enjoy his books. Anyway, there was a line that stuck with me, rolling over and over in my head until I lost track of the exact wording. I should’ve written it down or highlighted it, but I was more interested in the story and figured I could go back and find it. I absolutely do not dogear pages. No judgement, it’s just a personal hang-up. Story short, I can’t find it now. I think I’ve reread the entire fucking book at this point and still can’t locate it, so I’ll have to paraphrase. It was something along the lines of, “She prayed God give her a greater capacity for happiness.”
I think it’s been rattling around my head because of the way I interpret the meaning of happiness. For me, happiness has always been a fleeting thing, as capricious as any other emotion. It is an experience that, like all experiences, is destined to depart. Its cousin, contentedness, is the guest who lingers, and is generally unwelcome in my life, because I believe contentedness begets stagnation, which is tantamount to death. I’m not an unhappy person, generally speaking. Like all sentient things, I have moments of ennui, of excitement, of unrest, and of pure, joyful awe. I do my very best to be present in every circumstance, allowing myself to learn from both the rational and irrational. But I guess I’ve always regarded myself as a cliff face, against which the waves of the world crash, standing in stalwart observance, rather than a vessel to carry these waters for a time, to allow them to seep into my pores.
That being said, this year I think I’ll try to expand my capacity for happiness. This isn’t a resolution. More like a pinky promise. I’m still not sure what it looks like, internally not externally, but I think the image is crystallizing. A great stone bowl, splashing over with turbulent waters, their varying colors and temperatures clashing and intermingling, generating such power that they produce their own light. Now, it’s time for the fun part: determining the methods of constructing such a thing. Happier New Year, everyone.