What Does It Mean to Be Happy?

You know, Bridget, I'm sitting here watching a little ol' water strider skate across the top of the creek. Doesn't seem to have a care in the world. And it got me to wonderin'... is that little bug happy? Ey up, Earl. Are you asking if an insect has feelings? My cat's just jumped on my lap for a cuddle, and I'm pretty sure he's happy. But I take your point, love. What is it, really? That's the thing. Last week we were wrestling with finding the whole point of it all, and it feels like this question is hitched to the same train. We all say we want to be happy, but I'm not sure we've agreed on what the cargo is. Ooh, that's a good way of putting it.

For most folk, it’s just a feeling, isn't it? Like my first sip of tea in the morning. A little moment of bliss. But that's gone in a minute. That can't be the whole story. I don't reckon it is. The old Greeks, they had a word for it—eudaimonia. Now, I know how that sounds. But hang on. The old-timers I knew would've just called it 'livin' right' or 'a life well-spent'. It wasn't about a big grin on your face all the time. It was about... flourishing. Like a good, strong oak tree. Ah, I see. Not just a pretty flower that blooms for a day, but summat with deep roots. I knew a woman back in Whitby, worked on the fish counters for fifty years.

Always smelled of herring. I don't think she'd have said she was 'happy' every single day. Some days were cold and hard. But she had a purpose, you know? She was part of things. There was a sturdiness to her. Sturdiness. I like that. That's a word with some heft to it. It makes me think that maybe happiness isn't about avoiding the hard stuff. Maybe it's about what the hard stuff makes of you. Some of the most contented men I knew on the railroad, they'd been through derailments and washouts and seen things that'd turn your hair white. But they had a peace about 'em. It's because they'd been tested, you reckon? It's like baking a cake, love.

You can have all the best ingredients—sugar, flour, all the nice things. But without the heat of the oven, it’s just a sticky mess. You need the fire to make it into summat real. I tell you what, that's it exactly. The heat of the oven. So is happiness a place we get to? Like the grand depot at the end of the line? Or is it something else? Well, if it's a destination, I think a lot of us have got the wrong map. We think if we just get that new job, or move to that new house, then we'll arrive. But we never seem to stay there long, do we? No, we don't. I'm starting to think it's not a place at all. I think it's the... it's the rhythm of the wheels on the track.

It's the journey itself. It's looking out the window and seeing the world go by, the good and the bad. It's the conversation in the dining car. It’s not a state you achieve, it's a way you travel. Oh, that's lovely. It’s the tending of the garden, not just the prize-winning rose. It's the weeding and the watering and feeling the sun on your back while you do it. The feeling that you're growing something. Even if some days all you see is mud. Mm-hmm. Even the mud. Because you know that's where the good stuff grows from. So maybe that little water strider... maybe he ain't happy. Maybe he's just... balanced. And maybe that's enough.

Just finding your balance on the surface of it all. I think you might have it there, Earl. Just finding your balance. My cat's purring so loud I can feel it in my chest. He's not worrying about tomorrow, he's just balanced, right here, right now. Maybe we could learn a thing or two from him. Maybe so. Well. That is about the size of it. Just sitting here, talking with a good friend... I reckon this is a pretty good track to be on. It is, love. It really is. Right then. Night night, sleep tight, chuck.