At What Price Happy?

A fair swap, I would say, yes.  In lieu of fortunes and what is deemed success in this era, I have an abundance of free time, a modest and maintainable home from which I give care and nurturing to anyone seeking such.  I have what is necessary to create what is extraordinary.  I can bring to life a painted bird by capturing whimsy via a twinkle in its eyes.  I can craft traditional baked goods, alongside new classics to come, cookies to drool over, pies, cakes, breads, thus have I mastered the art of dough.  I have time, yes-time to walk through curtains of snowflakes weaving patterns of icy water down my nose and cheeks.  I've time to indulge in pen to paper wordsmithing, to feel the ball point roll over the whiteness of blank pages and leave a spiritual trail behind it, a profoundly personal journey caught forever in the timeline.  What would you give to have the time to fiddle away an afternoon plunking away on a classical guitar while a sunbeam blasts through multi-coloured glasses placed strategically on the windowsill to catch it?  What would you do with the freedom to nap at will, to chat with friends across the ocean without limits placed on your time?

The measurements of worldly success are out of alignment with happiness.  We are judged by visible signs of wealth and accomplishment, not by how well we've adjusted to what life has given us.  We may feel completely satisfied with our chosen paths and where they've led us, but others will raise an eyebrow, frown, and pose the doubt question, "is that all you have to show for your efforts?".  We want to count blessings; the world wants us to count money, possessions, objects.  But what is so wrong with loving what we have, with being content with modest living?  Who can put a price on inner peace and joy?

I live a blessed life.  I have in my world a fine mate who cares deeply for me and my offspring, who reciprocates my intense love.  I have two beautiful daughters, one just starting to come into true womanhood and exiting her nonsense years, and one who shines with the light of pure creative energy, like her mother.  I have a place to hold my oddities and quirky, kitschy adornments, whether they be made by my hand, or lovingly salvaged from trash piles.  I have developed a finely tuned writing savvy which could not have been cultivated and coaxed into blooming without incredibly large chunks of free time to dedicate to the honing process.  All this I have because I am unburdened of the responsibility of work for pay.

Of course, money is very tight in my world, and of course, life can be a struggle at times-it's all part of the grand painting of my life, which I can make with broad brush strokes or with intricate details using a three-haired paintbrush.  I chose this, readily, happily.  I chose my own measure of success.  I do not care about material wealth; it cannot define who I've become, does not speak to the masses about who I really am.  I cannot display stacks of money artfully around my home, like I can my child's artwork, or mine, or the lovely black velvet autumn waterfall painting I rescued from the garbage, or the beautiful fairies people have so lovingly given me over the years, or the carefully picked glassware Joe selected for me from where he works, because he saw something pretty and thought of me fondly.  No, money would never provide joy for me in that way.  Without the struggle to survive, I would never have the level of appreciation I do for all the small wonders that make life so valuable.  How could I feel the same about spring buds and summer evenings on the porch and blazing fall trees and first snowfalls if my life were dominated by employment obligations and the drive to accumulate wealth? Nay, I believe my own standards rank far higher in importance than what the rest of the world believes.  I recently read that according to whatever standards are used, one in two Americans falls into the poverty category, and we are in there, too.  Yet, I have never felt more rich, more fulfilled, more satisfied with life.  I am living proof that money is no guarantee of happiness, and I'll gladly remain down here on the bottom rungs of society, if that means I can wander to the shops when I want to, enjoy the making of, and eating of, my Christmas cookies, and appreciate the small trinkets and tokens of love that make up my home decor.

You know who teaches me the importance of prioritizing my life?  My animals do.  I have an ancient cat, nineteen years and winding down quickly, and she needs my lap for warmth and comfort as she goes through her final stages of her life. I have a youthful cat, only a year, a girl of very skittish nature, shy, who trusts only me. She wants me to hold her like an infant while I walk around the house doing chores, and she is teaching me Siamese so we can talk to each other.  I am her surrogate mother since rescuing her from the perils of the outside world and all its horrors.  I have also a middle kitty girl, a beautiful tortoise shell with a rather nasty disposition who likes to pick fights and then chirp innocently to me.  And of course, I have Brou, who adores me and would die for me.  We are walking companions, the striding, musing poet and her faithful sidekick, experiencing the world together, forever in awe of our surroundings.  I cannot imagine, nay, cannot even stomach the idea of, all of them alone for hours, waiting sadly for me to come crawling home from a meaningless job.  They would die of heartbreak, I fear.  If I walk to the post office and back, Brou gets distraught and anxious, and greets me with such enthusiasm when I return that one would think I had been gone for weeks on end.  I am needed at home to tend, to care-give, to feed, to love all who dwell here.  There is my happy.

I know the price I've paid for my choice.  I know I will miss out on some of the grandeur an alternative life would have offered.  I'll never know what wealth feels like.  But I never knew that anyway, and I think I came out just fine.  The riches I've accumulated in the forms of wisdom and peace and love far exceed my wildest expectations for what my life would offer me.  And I've free time to appreciate all my treasures, which, perhaps, is the richest gift at all.  A fair trade, I would say, and one I am very happy to keep making.  

A very blessed Yule to you and yours,

Love and light,                                                                                                 Tanya