Sharing Happiness

"An unshared happiness is not happiness." -- Boris Pasternak.

Not being an absolutist, I'm reluctant to agree with Pasternak totally. There is, however, a germ of truth in this that I wish to explore.

It is certainly possible to be quietly happy about some things and feel no need to find company to share them with. The things that give this kind of happiness vary from person to person. For me, it tends to happen most often with what seems to be small in the grand scheme of things. When I finish making something with my hands, I do not need to show it to all and sundry in order to savor the satisfaction and gentle happiness that I feel. I can hold the finished sock, shawl or dress and smile all by myself before I move on to the next thing. And for quite awhile after it is completed, it will generate the same little joy whenever I use it.

Another experience where this occurs for me is when I am walking among the trees. Many times I not only do not need to share the connection and happiness I feel in this experience, I do not want to. There is a depth of feeling within me at those times that defy the ability to share. Or, at least, I've yet to find anyone to share it with whose presence would not detract from the feelings it generates within me. I wonder if the experience would be enhanced or merely take on a different feeling if I ever were to find someone to share it with. But, for now at least, it is a stand alone joy that is not diminished by being solitary.

The ocean, on the other hand, absolutely demands a companion for me to feel the greatest happiness. There is an overwhelming power generated by the ocean that requires that the experience be shared. I feel that I cannot hold it alone. And, while I realize no two people will experience it in the same way, the feeling is so vast that another silent witness makes it easier to find the depths of joy and awe that it can give.

There are also some events and accomplishments that are, somehow, lessened without the sharing of them. Sometimes these are the milestones in our lives. Large or small, joyful celebrations are not as joyful without friends or family to share them with. Other times, it is the recognition of achievement or the difficult challenge met that generates such a bubbling up of happiness that we must tell everyone dear to us about it. And, absent dear ones, we will stop mere acquaintances or total strangers and tell them because we cannot contain the feeling within ourselves. The efforts or hopes that we've held closely to our hearts erupt and overflow when they are realized. It's the feeling of someone about to become a parent who tells everyone about the coming baby. It is the person who has struggled to achieve a dream who is finally able to say, "I did it!"

I wonder if there is any real difference in the types of happiness, beyond the circle it finds its voice in. Some might argue that it is better to feel the fullness of joys within ourselves, not needing to share it. Perhaps even suggesting that exuberance is unnecessary to joy. Other might agree with Pasternak that sharing is necessary to the fullness of happiness. I feel that there is no duality to happiness; it is a both/and rather than an either/or proposition. There is quite simply no right or wrong way to be happy or to express it.

Society imposes unspoken expectations and restrictions on the level the expression of joy may take. These tend to be based on the perceived value of the experience and the age of the person experiencing it. In fact, if people do not express an 'appropriate' response to a happy event, they can be condemned either as unfeeling or childish. If anyone much older than 5 years old becomes too thrilled at the sight of a daisy, they will most likely be seen as a simpleton. If someone fails to celebrate anything at the same level as those around them, they are seen as unfeeling and perhaps depressed. Society demands conformity even in expressions of happiness. How sad.

The challenge in expressing happiness, as in most other things, is to give it our own authentic voice and the devil take the hindmost for what others think about it.

Musical mediation

"Music is the mediator between the spiritual and the sensual life." -- Beethoven.

Not to put myself in the same category as Beethoven, I know what he means here. I began studying the piano at age 5, continuing until I was 16 and, while woefully out of practice now, I used to be very good.

When I first read this quote, I immediately remembered the times when, while playing, I seemed to disappear into the music and lost all sense of everything else around me. In some cases, I wasn't even aware that I was playing, but, from the reaction of others, I must have done rather well.

Playing the piano was both escaping and entering more deeply into whatever events or emotions were swirling through me and around me. Debussy, some Chopin and Ravel for the gentle moments. Beethoven for the powerful emotions. Some Mozart for playful times. And when the anger was welling up ready to explode nothing would serve except Mendelsohn's Funeral March with its triple fortissimo block chords. I always opened up the lid of the piano for that one, and the family learned to dive for cover.

I don't think for a moment that I am unique in this experience. I've watched other musicians play and seen them transformed by their instrument and the music. Once, I was enjoying an Irish band at a pub. The guitar player and the bodhran player were doing an adequate job. But the fiddle player disappeared into the sheer ecstasy of his music and it was a spiritual experience just to witness it.

This sort of transport is not limited to musicians. I believe that it extends to those who enjoy listening to music and, perhaps, to those with only a casual appreciation for it. There are some songs or pieces of music that can immediately take us back to some event or emotion which we associate, perhaps subconsciously, with the music. This holds true for both happy and sad occasions.

We seem to have a permanent link somewhere in our minds or spirits that connect us to the past by way of music. If the event or person was significant enough, and music was present, hearing the same music will bring those memories to the fore. Jim Croce's music always reminds me of young love, despite the fact that none of his songs were that light. Bluegrass reminds me of Saturday nights watching TV with my grandfather. Some songs, which otherwise sound cheerful enough, take me back to some very dark places in the late 70s, so much so that I have to remove myself from the source.

Some music, which has no connection to our past, can move us to unlikely places in the present. Bearing in mind that I have never once been known for my dancing skills, Arabic music always makes me want to dance in the most sensuous of ways. Celtic music lets me sink into a very deep place within myself. Most of the French Impressionist composers allow me to drift off, out of myself, on whatever path they lay before me. Bach and Beethoven, in different ways, can stir up feelings of glory and grandeur. And, frequently, Mozart's music makes me think of pure play.

Music surrounds us in ways we may not even recognize. Whether it is the radio or annoying advertisement jingles, eagerly sought out live performances or our choice of CDs. Humans, perhaps more uniquely than other creatures, have deliberately instilled music into our expression of ourselves, both individually and collectively. It doesn't matter if it is Handel's Messiah in all it's glory or the Oompah Loompah song from Willy Wonka, music finds a home inside of us and causes us to feel deeply. Two people hearing the same music will take away or incorporate different things, but very few people will remain totally unmoved. It gives voice to something deep within us and, maybe, just maybe, contributes to what makes us human.

Prayer

The first thing I was taught when I began a serious study of philosophy was to define terms. The point being that it is useless to devote energy to debating an idea or position only to discover that you are talking about different things. The classic example given was within the area of philosophy of religion. In debating the existence of God, both sides must have the same understanding of what is meant by the word "God". If one side means the generally accepted monotheistic idea of God and the other is referring to a spinach deity from Alpha Centauri, clearly there cannot be any meaningful discussion or conclusions.

This all came roaring back to me recently during the health crisis of a dear friend. I was encouraged and, in one case, instructed to pray and to pray for a specific outcome. Unbeknownst to the people I was speaking with, we seem to have vastly different ideas of what praying meant or entailed.

I reflected for a while on my personal history with prayer, which, despite my earlier conventional religious background, has deviated wildly from anything resembling the usual forms of petition. In fact, I have never, ever engaged in prayer petitioning anything for myself. The closest I have ever come is, when in moments of despair, a silent scream for "help" has erupted from deep within my soul. It wasn't that I felt unworthy to ask, I just never believed that I knew what was for the best in regards to personal situations. I also never thought it was my job to tell the Creator what to do in any given situation. My great-grandmother would always say, "Be careful what you pray for, because you just might get it." So, in my younger days, any formalized prayer was generalized and for others.

Then, as I studied more about spirituality and the traditions of various religions, I much preferred what is called contemplative prayer, which is much more like meditation than formalized petitions, a listening rather than a talking practice. And, for the greater part of my adult life, this has been the only spiritual practice that has fed me. It almost defied defining of terms because, I suspect, it is unique to the individual and their relationship with the Divine.

But, recently, I have felt a new dimension being added to this experience. And, happily, there was already language available to me in the way it was presented that didn't batter my current understanding. For a little over a year, whenever I feel moved to do so, I attend silent Quaker meetings. There is a lovely feeling in being able to enter into silence with people who hold some similar beliefs, but who put no dogma or expectations on their expression. Through this I have been introduced to the concept of "holding someone in the Light." I won't presume to say what is meant when someone else says this. But, for me, it means going to the deepest spiritual place within myself and carrying my love and concern for the person I am "holding" there with me, so that peace can enter in.

For me, this is the most and the least I can do. For me, it is the work of bringing peace and acceptance to whatever outcome is meant to be. Perhaps, that is essentially what those folks telling me to pray meant as well and we just can't define the term well enough.

"Prayer is not asking. It is a longing of the soul." -- Mohandas K. Gandhi.