What Makes You Happy? ...

A conversation last night had Ric ask the question:  What makes you happy?

For years with him it is a consistent ritual that happens twice a week: 

     Sunday - Burger Night
     Wednesday - New Comic Book Release Day

It's these two simple weekly events that apparently make the mayhem of the days between more bearable.  Being an artist, I would think that Ric's happiness (outside of a long and happy relationship) would lie in his artwork.  And I would wager a guess that it does.  However, he also admitted that the creation process is time consuming and frustrating and happiness mostly comes when he can begin to see the end result. 

Other simple pleasures for him are at night when, watching television, his husband, louis, falls asleep in his arm.  "When he's able to fall asleep like that, I know he's content and that makes me happy."

Michael, being imaginative and creative, tends to find his happiness with his hands.  As long as he's making crafts, working in his garden or creating a 12-course meal with a 40lb tofu log he's happy.  And unlike Ric (and myself), Michael doesn't find the creation process difficult.  Instead, he finds it invigorating. 

Donny, the bartender on duty, replied with cooking dinner for friends and getting ready for his trips to his Florida home.  He made a point as to say "getting ready for his trips" instead of the actual traveling part, stating that nowadays the times in the airports are the most frustrating.

When the question was posed to me, I couldn't answer at first.  But when I finally did, it was writing.  But even the answer itself wasn't simple.  It was more along the lines of :  "I don't know.  I guess...I don't really... If I were to pick something...  I guess I would be happy writing."  It wasn't that wordy (at least I don't think it was), but it was that confusing.

Truth be told, I can't remember the last time I was truly happy.  (ironically, as I just began typing that last sentence, The Who's "Behind Blue Eyes" started playing on the radio.  This has really been my personal theme song for quite some time).

But back to the topic at hand.  I can remember as a kid, spending hours curled up on the sofa reading a book or sitting out on the front stoop sketching.  I had alot of alone time creating houses and cities and planes out of a several year accumulated bag of Legos.  Even in my teens I had developed a desire to write, penning my first book (about 300 hand written pages in 2 spiral bound notebooks) at the age of 19. 

I had taught myself to paint, first in oils (yes, a special shout-out to Bob Ross) and then, almost as a dare to myself and a promise to a former employee, in watercolors.  My first watercolor (actually 2) were of a co-worker's parents' home she was going to frame up and give as a Christmas Present.  Although it took me several weeks and a couple of tries, I managed to complete them and was very pleased at the result.  Apparently so were other co-workers because I ended up doing 3 additional house portraits (pencil sketches) for that same Christmas.

Over the years, I decided to do a few more house portraits for my brothers and sister when they purchased their first homes.  One summer I had even done a portrait of my then 6-month old nephew from a wallet size photograph.  This had actually brought tears to my sister-in-law's eyes that following Christmas.  This life portrait branched out into an oil portrait of my old dog.

There was definately a talent there that I had let slide over the years as the hell of real life began to envelope me.  I stopped painting and stopped writing.  The creative side of me cowered away in a dark closet while the real me fought not to come out of it.  I would always tell myself that someday I'll start again, but the weeks turned into years and soon became a decade.

Yes, nearly 10 years had passed before I knew it.  My father had quit showing his disappointment in me for not continuing with my creative side and my mother never really showed her support one way or another.  And I always looked at myself as a failure for giving up and wondered if I would ever get that passion back.  But life kept smacking me in the face with one bad relationship after another until I finally gave up on that as well. 

My last relationship, which ended this time last year, lasted about 8 months.  During that whole time, I thought I was happy, but looking back I knew I wasn't.  I think it had been just a desperate need for a relationship after nearly 10 years of not even a single date.  Although it was a nice relationship, we were in 2 completely different places.  He was successful, making 6-figures and I, along with so many thousands of others, had the economic rug pulled out from under me and was on the verge of being evicted.  It wasn't that he made me feel good about myself to make me think I was happy, it was more like he was a nurturer and comforted me when I was at one of many low points in my life.

I had no money and couldn't date like a normal person and he was spending money left and right (something I didn't like him doing, but I had to swallow my pride).

When Christmas started to approach, I began to panic.  Although he understood and insisted that I not get him anything, I was someone who was (what I thought) in love and I became overwhelmed with guilt.  So, I gave it some thought and thought what would make him happy?

His life was his house, a little bungalow in Jersey.  So, after some self coaching and pep talks, I finally picked up my old watercolor tablet and a paintbrush.  From a digital photograph I had taken at dawn's early light on a cold October morning, I began sketching out my first house portrait in 10 years.

Almost immediately, my frustrations started to build at my inability to get the perspective right or the proportions.  More than once I threw up my hands and screamed at myself, crumpling up the paper and throwing it away.  I stewed in my own failure for days and weeks before panic started to set in.  Time was running out.

I started again and this time I wouldn't give up.  Instead of giving all of my time into making it look just right in pencil, I did a quick rough sketch that turned out halfway decent and then pulled out the watercolors.  I stayed up late at night and did a little at a time, spending most of the evening just staring at it.  When I neared completion, I would force myself to change something or add some color, knowing full well that watercolor can be very unforgiving. 

It was literally down to the wire as I finally called it finished and penned my name the morning of Christmas Eve.  I didn't have the time or the money to have it custom framed, so I just bought a piece of matboard and carefully wrapped it.

When I presented the gift, he looked at me and said that I shouldn't have gotten him anything and I just nervously smiled and said I didn't buy anything.  I watched as he carefully unwrapped it, not knowing what it could possibly be, but then, even through the sheet of wax paper I had placed over the image, he could make out what it was (or what he thought it was--a photograph).  When he lifted up the wax paper, he let out a gasp and immediately burst into tears. 

"Did you do this?" 

I knodded, my own tears welling up as the nervousness and tension from weeks of work drained out of me.  He was so happy that when I came over a few days later, it was already framed and proudly displayed in the dining room.

The end result made me happy. but the weeks leading up to it made me unable to start painting again. 

Writing was the same for me.

Michael urged me a several years back to start a blog.  When I did, I went at it full throttle.  It started out as a blog about The Post Bar and its cast of characters, but quickly spread into something more personal as I started describing my day-to-day observances.  But instead of continuing on, I started to lose not only interest, but the desire to write.  Again, things around me just never seemed to go my way and I fell victim to depression and listlessness.  Nothing I had to say seemed important enough to write about and my look at the world around me became as gray and lifeless as November.

I tried a few times to get back in it, but weeks and months began to pass without a single posting.

Several months ago, Michael suggested I start a new blog.  This is it.  It seemed like a good idea, but I'm limited in my writing time and I'm still having difficulty in finding things to write about.  It seems that the subjects I think I would tackle wind up similar to this:  describing everything I see wrong with myself and my life instead of writing about the lighter side of things.

So, back to the original question:  What makes you happy?

I really don't know.  I haven't found it yet.  I love my friends and the time I spend with all of them.  Is it enough to make me happy?  Of course not.  There's still the alone time.

My yardwork is about 1/2 done as far as the planting areas.  It's mostly seeded and those are beginning to come up.  There's still alot of work to be done, but I'll soon have a place where I can sit in quiet and think about what makes me happy.

Hopefully I might find it...