If God call-ed You, what would he say?

I think if God were to ever write me a letter, it would be short.  I mean, I know the guy has all the time in the universe, but he's busy negotiating the saving of souls and stuff.

So, I imagine my letter to go something like this:

"It's all good. Love, G."

And just as I'm about to tuck the folded letter into my pocket for safe keeping, I'd notice an ink smudge on the corner.  In my cynical mind, I'd think:

'Seriously, God?'

As I wiped it away with my thumb, a new message would appear under my touch...

"Trust me."

Tuck-ed away for a rainy day.

A good friend just made a bold move to pick up her life and shift it to the West Coast in pursuit of sunshine, happiness and truth.  A fellow blogger, and often the source of inspiration for -ed chronicle posts, she asked what had happened to my blog.  The last post published in late June.

"I'm just kinda...happy." I replied. 

When you think about some of the literature world's best known authors, one can conclude that happiness is not the best inspiration.  It is rare that a masterpiece sprouts from bliss.  Instead, one's best life work often is born from inner turmoil.  Think Poe, Hemingway, van Gogh.

But, she offered an interesting thought.  Happiness is a fleeting thing.  An entity that changes with the seasons, the circumstances, the hour.  It is important to preserve it in whatever form you can so that you can still find it in those moments it disappears.

What is it that makes you happy?

A feeling of accomplishment, acceptance, self-fulfillment?  Coming home to a big smile and loving arms at the end of the day?  Savoring the little things, without losing sight of the bigger picture?  Whatever it is that makes up your version of bliss--save it.  Tuck it away in a pocket for a rainy day.  Because sometimes it's just as difficult to find as it is to keep.

Wishing you bliss, Thursday evening sangria and tapas, and everything you're looking for.

Happiness, Project-ed.

I was feeling a bit like I was sleep walking through the day so, this afternoon during my lunch break, I took a stroll through the bookstore downstairs.  While I was perusing the new releases, I stumbled upon a table that seemed to be entirely covered in books on finding happiness.  Happiness at Work, A Course in Happiness, The Nine Rooms of Happiness, and the one that caught my eye: The Happiness Project.

Perhaps the recession has left us all in search of something uplifting.  But, generally, I feel our society is down in the dumps.  And re-reading the first sentence of this blog post, I realize I might be too.

Flipping through one of the above-mentioned titles, I came across the following piece of advice: "Take an inventory of your life.  Make a list or description of what you have going for you.  Then make a list of the all the 'ifs' you think would make you happier--the 'if' I had this, then I'd be happier.  I'm not usually a believer in self-help editorial, but I was feeling particularly needy today, so I figured I'd give it a try.

So here's my inventory:

I am 23 years old, living in New York City on my own paycheck.  I'm a pretty decent cook, I can run a half-marathon, and I have a steady job, a fabulous roommate, and a boy I love who loves me back.  My family is supportive and involved in all that I do, and my friends know just how to bring the light I need into my life.  I know how to speak French fluently, and have a wonderful vacation planned for late May.  Writing comes quite naturally to me, I was born with a fairly proportional body, and luck usually seems to be on my side.  I accept that I am not perfect, but try my hardest.  Life in general, has never really been that hard.

And here are my ifs:

If I had a higher-paying job, then I might be happier.
If I had a more fulfilling job, then I might be happier.
If I had more time to travel, then I might be happier.

The result:
If I focused less on the ifs and more on the nows, then I might be happier.

Huh, maybe there is something to this happiness trend after all...
Book club, anyone?

Romance, Tim-ed out.

Some evenings I sit with every intention of writing.  The birds chirp outside as the smell of fresh rain wafts in through my bedroom window.  I wait, and the words never come.  Perhaps it is the idea of a computer that bothers me.  Though it allows one to be more prolific—one’s hand can only move so fast—it does not have the romance of a large, loopy script scrawled on thick card stock.  The clicking of the keys does not lend itself to the musical ear, nor does the blue glow from the screen do much for the aesthetic appeal of the pastime.  I picture the ladies of old who would sit down at their writing desk, dip their quills in the thick dark ink pot and begin a brilliant letter with no other intention than to invite their neighbor to dinner.  How formal life was then.  We’ve done away with formality in exchange for productivity.  A few hundred years ago, a woman would not dream of going down for breakfast until she had been laced into her corset.  Even a few decades ago, leaving the house without a proper hat was a major faux pas.  Today we go to the grocery store in pajamas and Ugg boots.  Though I appreciate the opportunities time has granted for a woman such as myself, I also long for the days when life was simpler...and a little more romantic.

pic: weheartit

Imperfect, perfect-ed.

My sister always jokes that I want the greatest life that has ever existed. Every time someone brings us flowers, I make a comment about always wanting fresh cut flowers in the house to brighten up the rooms. I make lists of books I think will enrich my life. I wade through thousands of slides, looking for a piece of art to put over my bed, but never can decide on just one. I choose what I eat not based on nutritional value or caloric content, but by how pleasurable it feels on the tongue, how satisfying it is. Sometimes I think I spend so much time trying to create the perfect life that I forget about all the perfectly imperfect things that make life so beautiful.

Was it wrong to want all of these things in my life? Perhaps not at all. In a way, I believe they all stand for something greater—-a material representation of things that are difficult to identify and nearly impossible to recreate. The books may stand for the knowledge and enlightenment I actively seek throughout my life. The flowers may represent a simple, natural beauty I long for in all aspects of being. The sweets and fresh fruit and delicious, satisfying meals are the ultimate basic pleasures—a way of indulging the senses, exploring a realm of delectable treats.

Through all of this, the writing has always been there. An outlet, a pastime, a love. And perhaps, if all else disappears—if the books are all read, the flowers wilt and die, the food looses its taste, the writing will still be there to live, to love me back. Because, after all, I've perfected imperfect.