What makes me happy?

I wrote this poem during my first write to recovery session and was encouraged to share it. I hope some of you get as much from reading it as I did from writing it.

 

What makes me happy?

What does it even mean to "be happy?"

Is it the tingle in my chest

at the end

of some epic quest

to walk the dog

or wash the dishes?

 

Is it the gleam in my eye

the edge of tears

when I feel your heart on mine?

My arms around you

the smell of your hair

wraps around my brain

like snakes.

I'm medusa

inside out.

 

Is it the gleeful squeaks and squawks and squeals I make

when I see a good good dog at the park?

Tweets about cats in bodegas

sleeping in the shade

of cereal boxes

or a video of a baby bat

eating a banana?

 

Is being happy real?

Is happiness the gap between bouts of sadness and misery?

Is happiness that game

where you lose

if you think about it?

Is happiness a particle

that turns to waves

when you observe it?

 

Can happiness ever exist

as any more than

a reduction in sadness?

And who are these people

who see it the other way around?

 

Is happiness a handful of sand?

You scoop up two fistfuls

and set up to stand

but before you can feel it

your grip starts to leak.

You can never hold on to it all.

Slowly but surely the grains will fall.

It's a perishable resource

and if you run too low

if you want to refill your fists

there's a catch.

It means letting go

of everything

that was left in your grasp.

 

But then

if you want to eat

a picnic on the beach

then you can never get rid

of the last of that sand

no matter how hard you try.

 

Maybe the secret

isn't trying to hoard

as much as possible.

Maybe it's paying more attention

to the tiny grains

that you just can't shake.

 

 

 

Thanks for reading,

Panda

 

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