Happiness and Melancholy

I am a Spanish teacher and recently I was teaching the difference between two particular verbs, both translated to English as “to be.” One verb’s usage is generally for things that can change; the other is used for things that are more permanent. You can use either with the Spanish word for “happy,” but it means something different depending on the choice of verb. “Estoy feliz” means “I’m feeling happy.” “Soy feliz” means “I’m a happy person; my life is characterized by happiness.”

I would never use the second sentence to describe myself. I am funny and I laugh easily, but am I a “happy person”? Um, no. Frankly, I sometimes think people who are always happy are somehow suspect.  I am a bit of a melancholy sort, introspective and sometimes brooding. Mom was entirely different. She pursued happiness as if it were some sort of prey. She reached for it and grabbed hold of it, refusing to let go. As a young woman, she was always doing something she found fun: boating, fishing, sunbathing, dancing… she loved to have FUN. One of my favorite photos of her is when she was about 24 or 25, and she is in an evening gown, leaning against a bar, holding a cup of what appears to be coffee; more likely it is bourbon. She is smiling, or perhaps smirking is a better word, and she looks like a million bucks. Other photos taken that night are of her dancing with her second husband and some of his friends, and she was having a blast. She was the life of the party.

She was worried about me when she died. A couple of weeks prior, she and I had talked on the phone, and we talked about how I was not really happy. The combination of a lot of things in my life had me more melancholy than usual; truth be told, I was a little depressed. Not clinical or anything, just sad.  I think it was the first time she realized how melancholy I can be. She said, “I just want you to be happy, Baby. I don’t want you to be blue.” I told her that it couldn’t be helped; this is how I am and there isn’t really a remedy for it. I said I would be alright, that I was content with my work and my pets, and that was enough for now. She was really distressed by this, but I couldn’t say anything to put her mind at ease.

In Christian circles, we often downplay the importance of happiness. Joy, we are told is what is important; we hold happiness almost in contempt and speak reverently of joy. Joy comes from within and is dependent only upon our right relationship with Christ, while happiness is nothing more than a lowly emotion that relies upon our circumstances to manifest.   I remember being told once, “God doesn’t care if you are happy or not. He’s concerned about your holiness.” I know He is concerned about my holiness, or lack thereof, as is certainly a more correct assessment. On the other hand, I think saying He doesn’t care about our happiness is probably an overstatement.

I wonder if part of Mom’s illness over the past year was due to her persisting unhappiness. She had lost her ability to hold onto it, largely because her life was so damn hard, and the day-in, day-out struggle with an angry husband, constant financial pressures, worry about her grandchildren, and other dysfunctions of our family were her constant companions.  I hope you can forgive the use of the descriptive “damn” in the preceding sentence. It’s the only word that works there because we are all living outside of Eden, and our pain is the result of the Fall of man. But that’s another blog post, isn’t it?

Happiness is elusive. Like the tide, it ebbs and flows. If you try to hold onto it, it cascades through your fingers. But God help me to be more like my mom in that regard, pursuing it, like a child chasing the waves at the waters edge. It is certain that I will not always be up to my neck in it, but at least may it always be lapping at my toes.