Enough just isn't enough

When it comes to our happiness, I'm afraid we've been sold a pig in a poke. You see, not so long ago our future looked rosy. Magic boffins were going to solve all the problems we had. They promised us jet packs, robochefs and a cure for cancer. We wouldn't have to lift a finger. Our happiness would be delivered right to our door, conveniently packaged in nice shiny cartons.

The problem is, our future wasn't as good as we imagined it. Progress, inevitable as it was, refused to follow its pre-determined path. Instead of jet packs, we got blogs. Instead of robochefs, we discovered that McShite had taken over the world.

There still wasn't a cure for cancer.

So we revolted against our scientists. Irked that they hadn't delivered our promised utopia, we set about them. We sued our medics, because they made mistakes. We hated our food technologists for making grub so damned easy and tasty. Let's not even start on global warming.

You see, many of us had hedged our bets and put our faith in science. We'd discarded our gods and had invested in the stuff of substance; Hard facts, interest rates and consumer goods. It fucked us off big style, when we realised that this reality was as bleak and unfulfilling as the last one.

So in the absence of God's pastoral care, in the bleakness of science, many of us turned to art. Perhaps in beauty we would find the salvation we sought. The problem was, so many of us did this, that we found our art to be homogenised and reduced to the lowest common denominator. McShited.

The only thing left for us was the past. We pined for those simple, halcyon days when life was good and to the point. We convinced ourselves that there was some magic and wisdom that we'd lost in our clamour for happiness.

So we looked to the east and to the south. We stared longingly at the societies we'd subjugated for so long. Having shit in our own nest, we wanted what they appeared to have. Pure and simple happiness.

Yet these very same people were looking right back at us, wanting our rich and complex version of happiness. They didn't feel wise, enlightened or meaningful. Life was pretty crap too to be honest. It has a habit of being so. If there was a difference, then it would be that there wasn't the time to think about it.

If I were a god right now, I'd be asking "Well, what the hell do you want then?"

It seems that for some of us, being alive is simply not enough.

How to be happy

I've spent most of my adult life knee deep in the shit and piss of other peoples' misery. It's an industrial hazard in psychiatry. I'm also atheist and therefore have no god to provide me solace. Existentialism is my natural philosophy and as such, I'm inclined to feel that life is arbitrary. When it comes to morality, and the rights and wrongs of things, I lean toward Nihilism. I believe that no true morality exists.

I like my music in a minor key and my art to be bleak.

I am however, one of the happiest people I know. Smug bastard, eh?

Someone asked me about this the other day. I can't go into any depth, as it was in clinical supervision. But suffice to say, the question was raised by a devout Christian. Her God hasn't helped her much in my view, as she's struggled with depression for many years. She knows about my world view and was bemused frankly, why I could feel so content with life.

I made some half arsed attempt at describing why this may be so, but I didn't do it justice. Today I've been musing on it a bit. I thought I'd use Sans God to elucidate it a bit more.

So, here's my recipe for personal happiness. Feel free to add seasoning to suit your own taste.

Don't try to be happy. Happiness is a bi-product of living life, not the purpose of it. A singular pursuit of happiness is rather like building a tower of bricks starting from the top.

Be imperfect. The most unhappy people I know are those who strive for perfection. Good enough is good enough. The last 20% is nothing but flounce anyway. I side with Schopenhauer in this respect. He said that if we achieve perfection then the natural question would be "Now what?". Frankly we'd be bored silly.

Don't confuse happiness with an absence of pain. A day can be bad, and life can feel crap for a while. Circumstances have a habit of getting in the way. Similar to the being imperfect rule, don't expect life to be a bed of roses. It isn't, simple as that. Being in pain, be it physically or emotionally doesn't mean that life is inherently shit. Just that particular part of it is. Don't worry, it'll probably pass.

Notice small things. There is beauty everywhere you look. All you have to do is see it. The corners of paving stones. Grass. Bubbles in beer. A strangers smile. Door handles, whatever floats your boat. It's all there for the taking. Worry not about being a Gaia junkie.

Be wrong. It's OK not to be right. But it hurts to be fallible right? If we're honest, we only hurt because being wrong damages the fragile identity we build for ourselves. Who you are is nothing more than a collection of memes. Treat is as such. As Kurt Vonnegut said, "We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be."

Be Grey. Nothing, repeat nothing is certain. There is always another side to the story. There is nothing more stressful, and likely to make you unhappy, than defending an absolute opinion. Other people can be just as irksome. Doesn't it piss you off when you're arguing against someone who thinks they're completely in the right? Invariably there will be some small truth in their argument. Start with this as your retort. And the God question? Remember that atheism is just a lack of belief.

You are not that important. "I" is an overused word. We've been brought up to think individually. Your identity is important, of course, but can you really define yourself separately from others? Who you are is fundamentally intertwined with everyone around you. Your parents, friends, lovers, acquaintances and colleagues make you who you are. Appreciate how you're inextricably linked to them. You are less important than you think.

Exercise. Learn to manipulate your endocrine system. Exercise stimulates your body to release many feel good hormones. It's been proven in many studies that exercise lifts mood. In the UK, GP's have funding to prescribe gym memberships on the NHS for depressed patients. Exercise is a very cost effective way of treating mildly depressed people without drugs. Get of your arse, now!

Create. Make stuff. Don't just consume. There's nothing worse for you than an exclusive diet of TV, Gaming and Entertainment. Write if you're inclined to, dance if you want. Invent a story for your children or tell your lover how you'd make her feel like the most special woman in the world. Sit back and daydream for a while or drum a new rhythm with your fingers. Anything will do, as long as you make something new.

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These are some of the things that make me happy.

What the f**k is happiness then?

Am I happy? I suppose I am. Probably.

In truth, I've only a vague idea of what happiness is. I know that it's pretty important; why else would we devote our lives to the pursuit of it? But is it some rapturous state of being - full on fulfillment, actualisation and all that? Or is it a more suburban, gentle experience? Mediocre, even.

I remember a French lesson (3rd Floor, Humanities Block, Longfield Comprehensive, 1988), when Mrs Hardy, all tweed skirt and sternness, was struggling to deal with her unruly class. I was sat in my usual seat, at my usual table, trying to be cool but still conforming to Mrs Hardy's wishes for me to be a good student. I was a compliant kid, you see.

No, I was a dork; A typecast nerd - good at maths, poor at ball games (though I could run like Pheidippides). My only redemption was my guitar and vocal abilities. An odd teenage paradox then; a geek in a cool band. This saved me from the true ravages of dorkedom.

Anyway, I remember Mrs Hardy loosing her temper with us all. I'd never seen her in such a fit of pique. She slammed her hand on her desk and shouted;

"I'm sick of this nonsense, why can't you all be as mature and stable as Scott?"

I could have killed her.

What aspiring rock star wants to be "mature and stable"? What dork aspires to this banality, aged fifteen?

I hated her, not because she'd embarrassed me; I hated her because everyone in the classroom knew she was right. I was dull. Stable. For fuck sake.

The maturity bit is still open for debate. I'm 34 now, and still feel like a kid. The stability bit was bang on however.

I've never been at the whim of my tempers. I'm sitting right now next to Miche. You could say that I'm mildly happy. Her left leg is crossed over my right knee as I type. She's watching Scrubs on Sky TV. I've just kissed her on her forehead. I doubt she was conciously aware of it. Her head inclined a little, nothing more. Our life is what it is. Ordinary, stable.

I was born for this; My kids upstairs in bed, central heating on, income tax paid and washing up done.

No alarms and no suprises. A good pension.

Is it the chicken in me, that finds happiness in stability? Or is it the egg, that in being stable, is happy?

An awakening

A small part of my spirit listens to the seasons. During our shortening winters it sequesters away in some warm corner of my 'soul'.

There's a day, that I can pinpoint each year, when it awakens. Today is that day.

I'm not follicaly blessed, so even a glimmering of the spring sun beats down on my skull. Leaving the office early tonight, it was warmed a little. The sky was clear, and yet it was still mild. I noticed the trees beginning to blossom.

Driving home, I found that the sun no longer loomed on the horizon. At last, it had climbed high enough for my sun visor to block. My foot got heavy on the accelerator and the stereo got loud.

I came home to a quiet house. I forgot that both kids were out at friends for tea. Miche was working at her desk quietly. We'd the house to ourselves. Mmn.

Later, I decided to give our front lawn it's first cut of the year. Dom was dropped off, saw me with lawnmover and uncharacteristically ran past into the house. No hello or nothing.

A minute later he clambered out of the front door, dragging his yellow kiddy mower. He must have been rummaging deep in the garage to retrieve it. We finished off the lawn together. Up and down.

With smug self satisfaction, I decided that life is good, and spring is here.