This post is about joy. Or being happy. Or at least being content. Or simply not bellyaching unless you really got something to bellyache about. An individual I will not name nor do anything to identify, many years ago (thirty-three if you have to know) used to get really upset at me for being what he called "cynical." To this day I haven't a clue what he was talking about. I haven't seen much of him in the last couple of decades save for a chance encounter fourteen years ago in the cemetery (we were both alive and well, or at least I was.) Of course if my being cynical used to upset him three plus decades ago, Heaven help him should he read any of this blog.
The first time he got upset with me for being cynical, or for any other reason, we all happened to be sitting in a diner together as we had a lot of friends in common even if we couldn't stand each other. Three of them were wearing beautifully coloured pullovers. These gentlemen also happened to be, as they say politely in Spanish, "rechonchos" or tending towards round and fat. One I had previously nicknamed "the Neon Pumpkin" because of his bright orange sweater. He used to proudly claim that orange is the colour of insanity... I just asked Uncle Google, and he says that the quote "orange is the colour of insanity" has been ascribed to Vincent Van Gogh but this isn't for certain.
Along with the Neon Pumpkin, one fellow wore a tomato red sweater and the other an eggplant purple so collectively I named them "The Vegetable Patch." They laughed it off but that unpleasant little man went absolutely ballistic. I still don't know who must have stuck what up his hole or how long it had been there festering after it died but I still don't have a clue what he meant by "cynical." But here I digress.
Today while on South Granville Street, a prestigious shopping district in Vancouver (never mind why I was there), I overheard a presumably rich young man mutter to his companion in a rich young man sort of whine that there wasn't anything to be happy about. I know of course nothing about this young guy's life or circumstances, whether he just lost his job or his girlfriend has dropped his sorry ass or if his mother is terminally ill and these things can happen to anyone including allegedly rich young men. I am presuming by his tone that there was nothing particularly wrong with him: that likely he was hung over, having a bad day, didn't like the person he was with, or simply was being a little boy who didn't get his ice cream.
I promptly began to think of all the things that I am happy about and likely him too:
I am breathing. I have the gift of existence and life and each new breath that I take celebrates this truth. I never chose or opted to live. This has been a collaboration between my biological parents and God. I enjoy good health, my eyes are good and I have the blessing of colour vision. I can hear clearly, even if it is the whining of spoilt rich boys (or girls) or the man walking behind me talking on his phone in an irritating nattering kind of voice. But I can hear. I live in historically interesting times. I live in a beautiful part of the world in a city that should be too expensive for me but for the grace of God. Even though I had a full work schedule today my morning and late afternoon clients cancelled and I still get paid for it, leaving me time: time to walk in a beautiful leafy neighbourhood of trees, parks and palatial homes; sit on the gardened terrace of a beautiful café with my sketchbook and an iced Americano.
The day only got intense when I ended early with my boss's permission and blessing and shopped for groceries. It wasn't bad in Safeway which I always find a pleasant, unrushed shopping environment. Cheap Thrills, or should I say, No Frills, was something different. It is not a pleasant shopping environment especially when it's busy and shoppers all are on automatic pilot getting in each other's way and not caring. It is always exhausting for me being there though the low prices keep me returning. This could be why there is often an atmosphere of desperation in those stores. It is not a happy shopping environment because the clientele is so driven to save money and likely because they are already struggling to get by.
I had to seriously practice mindfulness to get through there and the produce store where I stopped for fruit as well as on the Canada Line transit train. I intentionally moved slowly, focussed on breathing and trying to get a sense not of the people but the persons surrounding me. I'm glad I got home, I am glad I have food, that the weather is so lovely and the light shines on the leaves of the plane trees in the garden below my window.
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