Happiness Lies in Being, Not Having

Neatly tucked inside a book called Oklahoma Boy, sitting on a dusty shelf in an antique store, these words have probably not been aired in many years, yet they jumped off the yellowed page with as much fervor and necessity as they day they were printed.

"Recently a circular portrayed a family of four with beaming faces and each loaded down with bundles of goods purchased at a department store - with this caption: "You get more out of life the American way!" It went on to say, "The American way is to open a credit account - Do it today and you'll begin to get more out of life...the American way!"

That, of course, is one way. But that is not the whole picture of life. There is love and kindness and poetry and beauty and heroic daring; they too, have meaning. Most people seem to think the primary interests of life are material. "How much did he leave?" we ask when some well-to-do man has died. He left all he had. It is not how much? The question is how true; how good; how beautiful; words which are honest, deeds which are just, purposes which are beautiful; these are the highest satisfactions in life.

You see, satisfaction lies not in having, not even in doing, but in being. Yet the idea of having has gone beyond the wildest dreams, and the idea of being is classed among the lost arts. To get the most out of life the human spirit must be something.

Some of the highest satisfactions in life may be found in creative work. Anyone who has ever entered into creative has found meaning and satisfaction in life for it comes out of work more than from any other thing. All great books, paintings, statues and musical compositions were achieved by those who lost themselves in their labors, and worked primarily for the joy in the work.

Consider the idea of creative sharing: In your day's work, can you spare a kindly word, a friendly greeting, a wave of the hand? These simple actions have magic in them.

Can the idea by the great Idealist, "If you lose your life, you will gain it," possibly be true? Some have tried it and have not been disappointed.

And you get more out of life by adventurous living. The reverence of the heroic has not died among us. There are still opportunities for adventurous living. They are not all confined to the exploits of the sea and the fields and the air.

Emotional agitations, resentment and violence are still to be curbed; criminal and lower temptations have never lost their power; hate is as deadly as before. What do you suppose would happen, if we should whole-heartedly give ourselves to truth, beauty, goodness as the one passion of our souls?"

by R.E. Dreger, printed in the Tulsa World February 16, 1969

Scars

There are some hurts that fall off like scales. There are some that we must carve out like tumors. They invade every vein, every artery, every cell. With precision and gritted teeth,we must painstakingly remove all traces. Of a friend, a lover, a connection that’s woven itself into the fabric of our bodies. There is no anesthesia. The cries of pain from our soul go unmedicated and unanswered, save the placing of a scalpel in our hand. And so we must go to work. Eventually the shock sets in, and instead of pain, we feel numb. The hours of careful cutting leave us utterly exhausted. We get most of it out. What’s left, we let our body try to handle on its own. As we heal, we see the scars raise along our limbs, across our chest; remembrances trailing across our skin. But the only way to be sure it’s all out, is to cut ourselves open again. Each time the pain is fresh, but the scar gets thicker, the tissue builds. Over and over we must open ourselves up to see if the hurt is gone. Sometimes reopening the scar invites the hurt to settle back in. Sometimes reopening the scar, we are surprised to find that it has diminished to only a fraction of what once took over our entire being. Sometimes, we find that it’s not there at all, and we can let the wound heal once and for all. The hardest part is picking up the scalpel. Until we open our veins and see it with our eyes, it’s easy to dismiss. To walk around full of this sickening cancer, this disparaging hurt, as if we are healthy and whole. But once the slice has been made, there is no denying what flows through our veins. And we have no choice but to carve it out.

Waiting for the Axe to Drop

Sometimes I find waiting for a thing to happen is worse than the thing that actually happens.

Waiting for the Axe to Drop

It hovers above me

So far it could be a stream from a plane

But I know what it is

A silver blade, waiting, biding its time

It hangs like an omen, like a cliche

As I walk, it follows me, everywhere

You open your mouth and the blade quivers

It prepares to drop, a free fall, slicing through the open air

But you hesitate and keep our secret a bit longer

And so it waits

And so I wait

Eventually I know you must confess

The axe will drop

Blunt but piercing, the truth will cut through me

It will take all the strength my heart has left to stop the blade

Offering up arteries and vessels and chambers

Catching it just before it kills me completely

Observation

I am watching myself. Like an observer hovering over some experiment with a clipboard and pen at the ready. Did I go too far? Did I tip that scale where stable elements suddenly lose all stability and head towards escape and chaos? I am waiting to see how this will affect me. Too far in one direction and I know I will need to pull back, alter a few elements. No change? Then we will proceed. Although most likely with trepidation. One probably should not experiment with the heart or mind, but I will stand here with my clipboard and wait for the results.

I Do Believe in Magic

Today, just for a little while, I experienced magic. Perhaps it's because this week marks the release of the final Harry Potter film that I am especially nostalgic about all things magical and muggle in nature. As one of my most beloved stories comes to a close, I will surely relive in the final moments of the film the heartache and longing for more of J.K. Rowling's world, as I did with the books. As I have with all books that have transported me into some other world for however long the pages last. These kinds of stories are the kind that convince me that magic is real. Not the kind of magic that comes from the end of a wand, but the kind of magic that is born inside when one finally realizes that there is something greater, some epic purpose to our lives, something beyond our understanding. This kind of magic is awakened someplace deep within and grows like tiny branches of lightning until it reaches my fingertips and toes and eventually my eyes so that I can no longer hold back the tears. This is the kind of magic I experienced today. For a few hours I was immersed in stories yet to be told. Stories that traverse worlds I have never seen, encounter people I have never met, but that hold truths that harken to the world in which I live, all the while begging me to explore that which I don't know. Movies are magic. And today I was completely overwhelmed by the magic that comes with working in this industry.

I Am Not a Robot

Dear Chelsea,

In case you were wondering, you are not a robot. You are a human being. You cannot be programmed for perfection. You can be expected to make mistakes. You wear your heart too easily on your sleeve, so yes, you are bound to be hurt. You will move on though and time will take care of everything. You can stop freaking out now, because you are human, and that's okay. You are not a robot. Remember this.

Delusional Expectations of an Aging Millennial

Because I couldn't have said it better myself:

I will develop a “bedtime routine.” I will make a diligent effort to wash my face every night before bed. I will dab anti-wrinkle cream on my fingers and gently trace circles onto my aging skin, like I’ve watched my mother do. Once a week, I’ll apply a facial mask that will require fifteen minutes of doing something else until it dries; something noncommittal like fixing a cup of tea.

Bedtime will arrive at approximately the same time every night, and I’ll wear something soft and feminine. It will probably be a cotton teddy with lace trim; it will be something I would wear out of the house if I were a few years younger. I will not sleep naked or in an ex-boyfriend’s t-shirt or in whatever outfit I wore to work/ the bar/ a date. I will sleep in my own bed. I will not let exhaustion/ laziness/ contentedness become an excuse for sleeping on the living room couch. I will not let the lull of infomercials carry me in and out of dreams.

My friends will get married, and I’ll attend their weddings without a date. I won’t lament attending weddings without a plus one. There will always be one good-looking bachelor, slated to be my partner in flirtation for the duration of the reception. We’ll both know how to slow dance. I won’t feel clumsy or out of place.

I’ll live alone, maybe. I will learn the correct way to paint a room. I’ll own a tool kit. I’ll never spend the day just existing, just doing nothing but breathing in and out and flipping through channels. There will be too much to accomplish. I won’t waste a Saturday. I won’t meet friends for brunch and find myself closing down a bar eight hours later. I’ll go to the Farmer’s Market before that happens – or the flea market, or the supermarket. I will have an income that will allow me to knock out all three in one weekend, if that’s what I want.

I will always have friends in my city. If one of them calls me up and asks me to come shopping or get a pedicure, I won’t have to turn them away. I will always have plans for the holidays. My parents will always send me a gift on Valentine’s Day with a card reminding me that they’re, collectively, my first Valentine(s). This will happen regardless of my romantic status, how old they get, how old I get.

I won’t remember what it feels like to have a broken heart. I will stop caring about the people I could not be with when I was younger. I will not wonder what they’re doing or feel empty when I hear that they’ve succeeded in building a life without me. I won’t “check in” or sob over photographs of them living new lives. I will fall in love, one final time. My parents will like him. We’ll take road trips to nowhere and dusk will be our favorite time of day.

Someday, skinny jeans and towering heels will go into storage for nine months. My closet space, once reserved for plunging tops and backless somethings, will belong to empire dresses and pants with elastic waistbands. I’ll be bloated and sore and fatter than ever, but everyone will say I’m “glowing” and I’ll accept it. My breasts will blow up, engorged with mother’s milk. I’ll give birth, and I won’t be mortified/amused by what excrement my child causes to escape/ is wearing all over its veiny, bloody little body. I’ll breastfeed myself down to a size 4; motherhood and stress and a boozeless 270 days will whittle my figure down to something it never was before. I will never wince at cellulite again.

I will pay off my student loan debt before I die. Eventually, I will stop thinking about how my monthly payment could’ve been better spent. I will be able to afford to go on trips that aren’t work related or paid for by someone else. I’ll be free from worry, from dread about the future. I will make a living. I will have an IRA. I will have CDs. I will invest in gold. I will have health insurance. I will have life insurance, because someday, other people will depend on me.

If I had to guess, I’ll live for another 60 years. I will grow wiser, more graceful. I will never hurt someone I love. I won’t die suddenly or tragically. It will become what other people expect of me; every passing year brings me closer to my temporary home at the crematorium. I’ll be sprinkled on a windy day, somewhere insignificant. My ashes will fly back into the face of the person releasing them, burning their eyes and affixing to their tongue like bitter, grey snowflakes. They’ll feel both scarred and grateful to have a funeral story to repeat at family dinners and after-work engagements. My final gift to the world.

Written by Stephanie Georgopulos. Re-blogged from Thought Catalog