Last week, I posted a bit on teaching our children “the art of happiness,” linking to an article I had written inspired by a book about the topic. I had written the article with enthusiasm and a strong memory of my best friend from an earlier time in my life (a more hectic but still rich and amazing part of my life), who had inspired me with her daily gratitude journal and the awareness that it took some work to be happy sometimes, that it took practice and hard work to stay out of the dark place some of us know too well.
Depression has threaded its way through my family tree for generations. There are secrets and mysteries surrounding the topic that I wish I could uncover and brush aside as easily as clearing the leaves from a dormant spring garden… but I can’t, and won’t. There is this story in every family, I’m certain. And I think that’s why, when faced with the slightest (intelligent, well-thought-out) resistance to what I had written, I became instantly defensive and let my words and thoughts flow too soon. Often I self-moniter and defer, realizing that each opinion is valued and justified and someone’s absolute truth and story. But you know, sometimes it touches a nerve. And so I reacted (in these comments). And despite my great desire to go back and erase my comments and emotional reactions, I let it stand, because well, I am human and real and can be bothered. No shame there. (Well, maybe a little -ha!).
But if I am to be honest, I have experienced melancholy and rough patches, intense anxiety after having Emil, but never depression. Never the all-consuming, energy- and life-sucking darkness that I have witnessed others fight against. The deepest sadness I experienced was at twelve years old, losing my father with whom I was intensely close, and is the bar with which I compare all other sadness; nothing ever hits that spot. I feel it still, a deep pit in my stomach when I allow it to enter, a stone I hold within me. But it was grief, not depression. It was a grief that has matured into something untouchable within me, grief into strength, an experience that no one can take from me, that I will never forget and would never want to forget if given the choice. It’s a depth that has helped me grow in the other direction, to experience absolute vulnerability and joy and love in my marriage and motherhood and friendships.
Happiness, however. What is this thing? And is it something we should actively seek? I appreciate the push from Veronika, Kristin, and Esther to think this through one more time, to play devil’s advocate. And I think the answer lies in the wording of the thing. Of course, as Kristin states, happiness is a feeling. Should we be seeking certain feelings over others? I don’t know, but I desire joy and feel it often in my life when I practice gratitude. I suppose I want my children to feel that joy and appreciation in the everyday things. I want them to go through life seeing the beauty of it, not taking it for granted.
So, yes, I see the value of practicing the art of happiness. Because I do believe that’s what it is — an art. It’s contentment with life, with community, with nature and art and science and literature and with one’s self. It’s being in touch with the universe and not overlooking all the amazing things right in front of our eyes. It’s feeling sadness and regret and jealousy and embarrassment and then moving past them because wow. How amazing is this life? How just utterly amazing and beautiful it is to be here while we are here. What a gift.
I’m really moved by your honesty here. My family too has suffered with mental illness, and I see it affect my students as well. But no one likes to talk about it and as a society we tend to label it very negatively. To me, happiness is about managing your emotions. We all have negative feelings, and for some people those feelings can trigger depression. But if we can maintain equanimity, then despite negativity, our lives will be happy and joyful. Equanimity is a wonderful skill to teach children (and is my main goal in dealing with my own child’s very big emotions, guided mostly by http://www.ahaparenting.com).
Have you ever tried meditation? It has been a total lifesaver for me. I’m sure you have amazing resources in St. Louis where you can go with frequency. I absolutely love going to the guided meditation at my university every Friday. Then in between I use the Stop, Breathe & Think website/app, which is just wonderful. It makes me feel like a superhero, impervious to bad things!
http://stopbreathethink.org/
Thanks for sharing.
There are many reasons I love you, LK. Your honesty, your warm heart, your generosity, your bravery …all on display here. Hugs. NK
I honestly felt pretty lousy on Friday because when I read your responses I thought I had hurt your feelings in some way. I don’t read a lot of blogs, and I comment on fewer, but I do have a few that a read and discuss, and I enjoy that. I think this is a place where good discussions happen, and you have intelligent and thoughtful readers. It’s nice to have that because we all know what the comment pages look like on most media! Anyway, I was really only talking (and thinking aloud) about the title of the book – because I haven’t read it. And I was trying to make it clear that I wasn’t questioning or criticizing a single word YOU wrote. I agree with most everything you write and post in this space, and love to hear your thoughts on things. (The only time I’ve ever questioned your judgement was on letting go of that trapeze bar! Crazy woman.) It’s also nice to have a place to talk about these things, and I appreciate your book reviews especially because I never find the time to read as much as I wish I could.
I’m really glad you wrote this because I’ve felt the same things about comments before and I just love that you were honest about how easy it is to feel defensive. I do think in this case it’s an issue of semantics and what “happy” or happiness means.
My take on this is that, generally speaking, I would say my life was happier before my daughter Eliza died. What I really mean by that is that my life was untouched by great sadness. Since her death, I’ve grown closer to my husband, I’ve had two more daughters, I’ve made some of the closest and best friends of my life, and I’ve held onto friendships I’ve had since high school and college. My life now is much fuller and richer and more joyful than it was before Eliza, but it’s also sadder. I miss her every day. I literally ache for her. So even though my life in many ways is actually BETTER than it was when I was a childless graduate student in my twenties, I would hesitate to say it’s “happier.”
Does that make sense? There seems to be a sense for many of us that happiness does not allow for deeper feelings of grief or angst or anxiety that, as you say here, actually allow for vulnerability and joy–like that Gibran quote “Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.”
Honestly, the idea of actively striving for happiness makes me feel a bit itchy, like it sounds like such a first world problem (but don’t get me wrong–I have SO MANY first world problems!). I get impatient with students who say their goals are to “be happy”–what does that MEAN? I do what my own kids to be happy (of course!), but maybe I’d prefer they have more selfless goals (which, I hope, would ultimately bring them happiness!) I also feel that my life is meaningful and worthwhile and good even now when I struggle with the idea of being “happy” and being a bereaved parent. Again–probably an issue of semantics more than everyday experience at this point.
But also: I read The Happiness Project several months after I lost my baby and I found that simple, specific exercises to increase my “happiness” actually helped me. It wasn’t about faking my feelings as much as allowing myself to take pleasure in small things again. And welcoming the feeling of gratitude back into my life to sit alongside grief in all its messiness, which seems to be what your posts (and article) were really about.
Liz, thank you! I’m going to check that out, but it sounds very familiar. I appreciate your comment!
Kristin, oh, I feel bad that you felt bad! I have, my whole life, had to keep the hothead inside in check. Something I work on still, and clearly let loose last Friday. Sorry for becoming defensive, and please don’t let that stop you from commenting. I, too, really love the conversation and online community.
Brooke, I am so sorry for the loss of your daughter Eliza. And yes, I think you get the gist of what I was trying to say. More importantly, all of your comments made me think through a bit more what I was trying to convey and what it means to seek happiness/contentedness in life. Thank you!
This is so beautifully and honestly written. This post makes me miss blogging, and illuminates all the short comings of faster forms of connecting, archiving, and sharing (namely Instagram).
I too have a family that is very much touched by depression, and if I’m honest it’s something I always fear will sink its teeth into me. I think specific methods for appreciating life are comforting, because it makes me feel as though I am in control of my own state of being. I do believe that positive behavior precipitates positive thoughts, but that all slips away when you’re talking about real depression; a disease that a good dose of gratitude can’t easily remedy.
These are complicated issues, and beautifully debated in these posts.
I’ve read and reread these posts and comments and sat with so many of the responses. Interesting that the notion of modern happiness is such a trigger point for many of us.
So much of what Brooke said resonated with me. I’ve had many a dark day in my time and I have to be wilful in my steering a straight path. I find happiness is like that moment you bounce so high you pop your head above the clouds and see the sun, weightless for only a moment, exhilarated before heading back down. My younger notion of happiness was having life lift me up on big gusts of joy, oportunity and the excitement of the biggest of things. That comes with little experience and naivety and maybe even a hopefulness that bleeds away after ones 20s and early thirties.
So, excersizing gratitude and contentment is the only way for me to find levelness. Diving deep into my abyss of sadness or despair would surely bring me more creative fulfillment but as a parent I can’t allow myself to do that.
I have tremendously conflicted feelings about what to teach my boys about happiness, as a goal or as something that happens to them, because of my own struggles with it. I came from a background whetree hard work was the value and thus i didnt pursue things that couldve brought me a more joyful existence. I want my children to pursue their passions within reason and, as lauren mentions, to not give in to the negative thought spiral. Like R Kipling so beautifully notes in his peoms….which I will now have to go dig out….
If by R Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
Ah, beautiful, Maggie! Tears in my eyes! Thank you, friend!
And Lilly, yes. A fact I agree completely and totally with, and should have addressed: what you said, “… positive behavior precipitates positive thoughts, but that all slips away when you’re talking about real depression; a disease that a good dose of gratitude can’t easily remedy.” True and right. Thank you.