The Happiness Project

  But the thing is…when given the choice, I’d much rather stay home. I’m such a homebody, and I really don’t enjoy crowds, bars, or getting all dolled up, to be honest. Thanks for this post…it makes me realize that perhaps I can learn to be ok with being me…just as I am.

  Ah, the constant tug between striving and accepting. I’ve never figured this out, except to say that it seems like a balance of necessary opposites. And yes it can be sad, while being busy and running out and fulfilling all things on my dreams/desires list I am not just accepting myself as is and letting me be me as is. I’m pushing myself. And yet if I don’t push myself I find I can be dissatisfied with things about me and my life. I figure there is a time for both pursuing and accepting.

  For me, I always wanted to start my own business. I pursued the idea of “being a businessman.” However, whenever I tried to do things I thought businessmen “should” do, I would not be really happy. I would read certain magazines or do different things. Instead I try and make no plan on how to be a businessman and just do what sounds interesting, appealing, or “feels” like the right next step. I find I am still trending in a direction towards starting my own tech business but in a different way than I thought I should and it feels great at every step. Looking back, I feel the things I “should” have done were not the things that brought me towards my goal anyway and were taking me away from it (and wasting a ton of time).

  You also mention the idea of regret for not appreciating something that you think must have some beauty, which you cannot see. I understand this as well, but maybe instead of focusing your mind on this, you look at those things that do have a beauty to you now and look at them more and more. Everything has its own beauty. Some appeal to us more than others.

  Our lives are in the space between Isaiah Berlin’s “We are doomed to choose and every choice may entail an irreparable loss” and Borges’s Garden of Forking Paths, where every choice produces a quantum explosion of alternate futures. Ich bin ein Berliner for the most part, have a hard time seeing past the irreparable losses.

  * * *

  Seeing this response was comforting. I realized that just as clearing away my nostalgic clutter and my aspirational clutter in January had opened up more space for the possessions I really use in the present, relinquishing my fantasies of what I wished I found fun allowed me more room to do the things that I did find fun. Why worry about jazz clubs when I really wanted to design my own Book of Hours? Be Gretchen.

  TAKE TIME TO BE SILLY.

  Preoccupied with my work, distracted by my running mental to-do lists, I’d become more humorless than I used to be. Many of my resolutions were aimed at gaining control of my temper, but that wasn’t enough. A happy atmosphere isn’t created merely by the absence of nagging and yelling but also by jokes, games, and tomfoolery.

  One day while I was trying to prod everyone to put the groceries away as efficiently as possible, Jamie started showing off his juggling prowess with three oranges. Eliza and Eleanor were thrilled. I was annoyed.

  “Come on, team!” I scolded. “Let’s get this done. Jamie, put those oranges away and get the other bag.” But we weren’t in any hurry—only later did it occur to me that I should have enjoyed the moment and allowed the chore to be fun. Had I really become such a killjoy? The next time we were all unpacking groceries, I used two clementines to make goggle eyes at Eleanor and Eliza. They screamed with delight, Jamie laughed, and the groceries eventually got put away.

  Studies show that in a phenomenon called “emotional contagion,” we unconsciously catch emotions from other people—whether good moods or bad ones. Taking the time to be silly means that we’re infecting one another with good cheer, and people who enjoy silliness are one third more likely to be happy.

  As I went through my day, I looked for opportunities to see the ridiculous side of things, to enter into the spirit of Eliza and Eleanor’s play, and to goof around. Instead of getting impatient when Eleanor wants to play the game “Where’s Eleanor?” for the millionth time, I should try to have as much fun as she’s having.

  GO OFF THE PATH.

  Diana Vreeland said, “The eye must travel.” One of the things I admire most about my mother is her adventurousness—she’s always eager to go new places and have new experiences; she’s not intimidated by new situations; she’s constantly developing new areas of mini-expertise just because she’s interested in something. I wanted to be more like that, and my resolution to “Go off the path” was meant to push me to encounter the unexpected thoughts, unfamiliar scenes, new people, and unconventional juxtapositions that are key sources of creative energy—and happiness. Instead of always worrying about being efficient, I wanted to spend time on exploration, experimentation, digression, and failed attempts that didn’t always look productive. But how should I do this?

  In addition to the major interests that became the subjects of my books, I had lesser interests that I often shoved aside to concentrate on my “official” subjects. So, for instance, because I was working on my happiness project, I allowed myself to read anything related to happiness, but I ignored my extraneous interests. Now I wanted to goad myself into exploring these neglected byways. I discovered, however, that I’d been so diligent about ignoring these interests that I couldn’t call any to mind when I tried to pursue them. I started keeping an “Interest Log” to get a better sense of what naturally caught my attention. When I read a newspaper article with special curiosity, stopped to look at a book in the bookstore, or became particularly engaged in a conversation, I noted the subject in my log.

  A hodgepodge emerged: Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, obesity, cognitive bias, Francis Galton, organ donation, winter counts, Joseph Cornell, biography, people’s relationships with objects, child development, photography, Zen koans, any kind of character analysis, methods of presentation of information, book design, and artists from the Golden Age of Illustration. I soon lost interest in my Interest Log, but I did push myself to pursue anything that caught my attention, to read at whim. I read Christopher Alexander’s A Pattern Language, Edward Tufte’s The Visual Display of Quantitative Information, the complete essays of George Orwell, Scott McCloud’s Understanding Comics, the letters of Flannery O’Connor, biographies of Tolstoy, and every single book written by L. M. Montgomery.

  Matthew Arnold wrote, “All knowledge is interesting to a wise man,” and I often thought that if I took some time to learn more about the political situation in the Middle East, the architecture of Louis Sullivan, or the legacy of John Marshall, I would find these subjects very interesting. And probably I would. But then I think—well, I’d like to like Bach’s music more than I do, and I could probably make myself like it better if I tried, but I don’t like having to try to make myself like things. I want to spend more time on the things that I already like.

  Along with following my jumble of interests, I searched for other ways to “Go off the path.” I skimmed newspaper sections that I usually skipped. I disciplined myself to look into the windows of stores instead of walking by, oblivious. I started carrying a camera everywhere, to sharpen my eye.

  Each Monday in the month of May, I bought three new magazines—ones that I would never have read otherwise. The first Monday, I wandered into a magazine shop near my gym that I’d walked by a thousand times, and I discovered a magazine gold mine. Racks lined the room from floor to ceiling, and more piles fanned out across the floor. Three times, I walked to an unfamiliar subject area, shut my eyes, and pulled out a magazine at random. After making sure that I hadn’t accidentally picked up a porn magazine, I headed for the cash register. I ended up buying Equus (a special issue on “the Healthy Horse”), Paper Crafts Gourmet (“Easy ideas for food, cards & more!”), and Fresh Outlook (“The premier Christian magazine: spirit, body, life, home, business”).

  That night I looked at each of them from cover to cover. Never before had I thought about the challenges of taking a sick horse to a horse hospital or about hoof care. I’d never given any
thought to the strangely fascinating life cycle of horse parasites. I did remain puzzled, however, by why a magazine store in midtown Manhattan stocked a magazine aimed at horse owners. I was intrigued by the text of Paper Crafts Gourmet’s sample invitation for a “Mocktail Party”—“Join us for dinner and mocktails with a Caribbean flair as we celebrate our 13th anniversary.” I understood, of course, that some people don’t drink alcohol. Is it the case that people in social sets where most people don’t drink—observant Mormons, say—a host would serve “mocktails”? In Fresh Outlook, a Bible quotation grabbed my attention. All day long, I’d been annoyed by something a friend had done. I really wanted to criticize that person. I knew that if I did I’d feel remorseful afterward, but I was itching to pour out my irritation to some sympathetic ear. Then I came to a magazine page that had almost no text on it, so the words stood out in sharp relief: “Where there is no wood, the fire goes out; and where there is no talebearer, strife ceases.” Proverbs 26:20. Point taken.

  Each Monday, I have to admit, I dreaded reading the unfamiliar magazines. It felt like work and a waste of time, not like fun. But every week, I was glad that I’d done it. I always found something useful, provocative, or amusing. It was a painless (though slightly pricey) way to get new and unexpected ideas into my brain.

  I intended to read a poem every night, but I never managed to make myself start that program. I’m sure it would have been worthwhile, but it seemed like too much work. Maybe I’ll do that if I ever undertake a Happiness Project II.

  START A COLLECTION.

  I’d always wished that I had a collection—I’d never collected anything other than the knickknacks I’d collected as an eight-year-old. A collection provides a mission, a reason to visit new places, the excitement of the chase, a field of expertise (no matter how trivial), and, often, a bond with other people. It sounded like so much fun.

  There are two kinds of collectors. The first kind seeks to have a complete set—of stamps, of coins, of Barbie dolls—and keeps a comprehensive and orderly kind of collection. The second kind of collector is driven by sheer desire, by the siren call of objects. My mother, of the second camp, has a tremendous knowledge and passion for objects and materials; she spends a lot of time visiting museums and walking through stores. Her collections of Japanese ikebana baskets, Tartanware, Royal Bayreuth porcelain tomatoes, and in particular her magnificent collection of Santa Clauses, give her great pleasure.

  I wanted to start a collection—but what should I collect? I didn’t have enough passion to justify an expensive collection, and I didn’t want to collect junk. I decided to collect bluebirds, because bluebirds are a symbol of happiness. As far as I know, this connection arose from Maurice Maeterlinck’s play The Blue Bird. A fairy tells two children, “The Blue Bird stands for happiness,” and she orders them to set out to find the Blue Bird for her sick daughter. After many adventures, the children come home, unsuccessful—to find the Blue Bird waiting for them. “It’s the Blue Bird we were looking for! We’ve been miles and miles and miles, and he was here all the time!” This unsubtle moral, of course, was quite fitting for my happiness project.

  For no other reason except to keep my resolution to “Go off the path,” one afternoon I stepped into an oddly comprehensive hardware store that’s tucked into my neighborhood. It’s small yet carries everything from lightbulbs to wooden puzzles to vacuum cleaners to fancy candles. I found myself staring up at an array of realistically carved, battery-operated “Breezy Singers” birds, which are outfitted with motion sensors so they move and twitter when anyone walks by. I wouldn’t have considered buying one of the birds, except that I noticed that one of the birds was a bluebird. I stood transfixed. I could buy it for my collection. And so I did.

  Another day, I went with a friend down to the Flower District. We wandered around looking at the fake and fresh flowers and the enticing cheap decorative gewgaws. I’m fascinated by bags of tiny plastic babies, fake zinnia heads, and butterflies made of gold sequins, and she’s exactly the same way.

  “Hey,” I asked, “do you think any of these places would sell anything bluebird-related?” Having a collection transformed an aimless walk into a quest.

  “Are you kidding?” she said. “There’s a store that sells fake birds on this very corner.” (How she knew this, I have no idea.) I bought a realistic bluebird for $2.71.

  A year ago I wouldn’t have allowed myself to make these purchases. I wouldn’t have cluttered my office with bluebirds. I would’ve felt too guilty about taking time away from work to do “nothing.” But my resolutions, like “Take time for projects” and “Go off the path,” had changed my attitude. I saw that there was value in taking time to play, and along the same lines, I’d come to see the merit of treasuring a little clutter. I’d been relentlessly purging everything superfluous from our apartment when a friend said to me, “Remember to leave a little mess.”

  “Really?” I asked, surprised. “Why?”

  “Every house needs a few junk drawers where you can find unexpected things. It’s good to have a bit of chaos someplace, with some things that don’t really belong anywhere but that you want to keep. You never know when stuff like that will come in handy, plus it’s just nice to know it’s there.”

  As soon as she said it, I knew she was right. Someplace I need an empty shelf, and someplace I need a junk drawer. Maybe my bluebirds do make for a bit of clutter—but that’s fine. I want my office to house some playful elements that don’t have to be useful.

  As I wired my bluebird to the standing lamp next to my desk, I was glad that I’d gone off the path. It was fun. What’s more, buoyed by this fun, I had the mental wherewithal to sit down and tackle something that I’d been postponing for a long time: figuring out how to post my own photographs onto my blog. So although I felt as though I’d been wasting time, in fact I’d been quite productive—just not in a typing-at-my-computer kind of way.

  The work on Eliza’s scrappy cap had given me an idea for another kind of collection. I started a “Happiness Box” in which I’d collect all sorts of little trinkets meant to trigger happy thoughts and memories.

  I had the perfect box—a box I loved but that had never really been suitable for any purpose. My college roommate had given it to me. It was old, with a lid decorated with two panels painted with roses and two panels of cloudy mirror. It bothered me to have it sitting around, unappreciated; now I had a special plan for it. I put in an ancient, tiny Snoopy memo pad that reminded me of my sister when she was little. I added a miniature china teacup from my grandmother’s teacup collection. I put in a figurine of Dorothy to remind me of home and Eliza’s early love of ruby red slippers. (“Those ruby slippers have always had the power to take you back to Kansas,” she’d croon as she’d reenact the climactic scene from The Wizard of Oz. “Just tap your heels together three times, Dorothy, and you’ll be home in two seconds.”) I put in my last pair of Coke-bottle glasses, made before they had the technology to make the lenses thin—they’re hilarious, now that I don’t have to wear them. A small cloth Little Red Riding Hood doll reminded me of all the times I’d read the story of “Little Red Hoodie” to Eleanor. A tiny Lego cone-shaped tree stood for all the Christmas trees of my childhood. I put in a New York Public Library bookmark—a reference to my favorite New York City institution. I put in an old, worn set of dice, to symbolize chance. I put in an American Girl miniature card featuring a bluebird.

  The Happiness Box was as useful as the toy jars. I had lots of little objects lying around in odd corners that I’d kept for sentimental reasons. They were clutter when scattered around but extremely satisfying as a collection.

  I asked blog readers about their collections. Did they find collecting fun? What did they collect?

  * * *

  My collections give me great joy. On the weekends and whenever I travel, I have an excuse to poke through little shops, flea markets, etc. It’s not as much fun if I’m not looking for something. I collect glass snowglobes,
Bakelite jewelry, light-up globes, and vintage Girl Scout stuff. It reminds me of my travels and good times with my friends, and also my apartment looks like “me” and (I think) stylish without me spending much money.

  I love collecting vintage religious art books.

  Yes, I have a few collections…vintage cake toppers, heart hankies, vintage bluebird “things”…and I think a few more.:) I used to collect hearts, but I started getting heart EVERYTHING from people as gifts. Then I felt obligated to display them. That took the fun out of it!

  I think it’s important to know that what you find fun can change. I’ve gotten rid of most of my doll collection because I don’t enjoy them anymore. My mom says, “Save them for your daughter!” but I’m sure she’d have more fun making her own collection than inheriting 30–40 dolls that mean nothing to her. I’ll just save a few.

  As for collections, too much “stuff” displayed around the house makes me feel suffocated. I love to see how other people decorate their homes for the holidays, but to me it always seems like a chore—not fun. We tend to do simple, meaningful decorations for Christmas, and that’s about it.

  On the note of collections, I’m sure they’re fun for others, but I simply don’t want to store, clean, and maintain more things. I’d rather spend my time reading, decorating my house, or trying new recipes.

  * * *

  After having started both of my collections, I had to admit—I don’t have a true collector’s personality. Maybe one day I’ll develop an interest in something that’s intense enough to make a collection interesting—but I haven’t found it yet. Turns out I can’t just decide, “I’ll start a collection!” and tap into the collector’s high. Alas, that Secret of Adulthood is true: just because something is fun for someone else doesn’t make it fun for me.