Happiness, where you at?

Ruth Whippman’s on to something. In a recent article she talks about America’s desperate pursuit of happiness, which quite often seems to end up in a large pile of dissatisfaction. After comparing the ever-positive Americans to the perpetually disgruntled Brits and revealing statistics that claim Americans rank lower than Brits on the happy scale, she wraps up with a simple, “So they may as well stop trying so hard.”

Easier said than done. Ever since I’ve come to the United States, it’s largely the pursuit of happiness and perfection that’s driven every one of my decisions. I’m constantly looking to improve on life, find “true” happiness (as opposed to the fraudulent kind), and “real” success. I’m pretty sure I have a version of all of these wondrous things, but still, one can’t be too sure.

And so, I keep at it. Working, slogging, struggling to be happy. Ignoring the fact that I’m already there, because it just can’t be this easy. Happiness can’t lie in simplicity, surely not. There’s got to be more to happiness and I refuse to rest until I find it.

A Writing Exercise Among Friends

OK so I’m writing. I’m writing because I promised Rhitu I’d write and if I don’t write I’d owe her royalties for my unpublished (and as life would have it, as yet unwritten) book. So I’m writing.

I don’t have a topic per se, so I’m going to have to make one up. I just read Colin Nissan’s diary of a woman trapped inside a man’s body trapped inside a beaver’s body, so that topic’s out (terribly unfortunate). I've chosen this very moment to write about nothing, because in my mind, I haven’t spent enough time procrastinating today. I’m not panicked enough about the rapidly approaching deadline, but I’m pretty sure a wasted day will tackle that feeling head on.

Rhitu and I plan to write everyday. A pointless line, a rogue thought, unrelated words of imperfection—we’ve told each other anything will do (we’re very considerate that way). I’ve decided to post our (or at least, my) ramblings online, so my dedicated subscribers (shoutout to Ashish and Michael) might consider hitting the unsubscribe button. On to more promising pastures then …
Divya, 04.10.12

Today I sneezed up a storm. Spring allergies, or hay fever, they say. There’s pollen all over the place. There’s pollen in the air, pollen on cars, pollen on your hair, forming a light fluffy, dusty layer, a little like dandruff but slightly more friendly in appearance. Only it isn’t. Friendly, that is. Breathe in these harmless-looking, fluffy particles, and your immune system will mount a sudden battle against them, as did mine today. And you know what’s in store next.

To be fair, it isn’t the pollen’s fault. It didn’t ask to be breathed in. In fact, a trip up my nasal passages and down the rest of my respiratory system is for all practical purposes, a dead end for it. Its sole purpose in life—to pollinate—will now forever remain unfulfilled. All it wanted (and is meant to do) was to find a pretty flower of its own species and travel down its stigma, and fertilize an ovule, patiently waiting in the ovary for the pollen’s arrival. All of this just to ensure that the plant bears fruits/seeds and there is a next generation for its species.

Instead, it's ended up in my body, along with millions of other doomed pollen grains of goodness knows how many species. Now, they and my immune system are at battle with each other. And until my body can win the battle or just calm down, realizing that these are benign pollen particles meaning no harm to my body, I will continue to sneeze endlessly. And each time I sneeze, my friendly colleagues will patiently continue to bless me, as they did today.
Rhitu, 04.10.12

Breathe Easy

It’s amazing how much an overactive immune system can slow you down. For the last three weeks now, I’ve been plagued with allergies so bad, there are moments I can’t breathe, can’t swallow, and really can’t do much else. I’m now feeling very sorry for myself in a first-world sort of way.

Allergies are the result of an oversensitive immune system that misidentifies harmless organisms (think pollen, ragweed, mold) as terribly evil and sends out its armed forces to fight them. Non-allergy victims tasked with describing the condition will refer to symptoms as mostly inconvenient, but otherwise harmless. Mostly inconvenient is what happens when you put a slice of bread in a toaster and it pops back less brown than you’d hoped. Allergies are more than mostly inconvenient—they’re energy-draining, misery-inducing, life-sucking bastards. And they’re turning me into a very angry person—not at all a good look for me, in the spring or otherwise.

::growl::

Earth, Air, Fire, Water

Every week, for the last four weeks, I’ve come away from a three-hour pottery class feeling down and out. Pottery’s a difficult hobby and I’m reminded of my lack of knack every seven days. But oddly enough, at the end of every class, I’ve also come away with some sort of lesson that’s revealed itself so trepidatiously that it’s only the next morning that I fully understand what I learned the previous night.

The first night my instructor told me that I seemed unsure of myself and suggested I try things out on my own first rather than turning to him for help. On the drive back home I dove into a deep hole of self-doubt and finally decided that people just didn’t get me. The next morning it dawned on me that his advice was, in fact, useful not only to pottery class but everyday life. The second week I learned that staying relaxed almost guaranteed a good pot and doubting one’s hand, one’s ability, and oneself would leave me with chunks of clay that simply refused to take shape. Week three reminded me that comparing my non-existent pot to those of my fellow potters would only lead to perfectly crafted feelings of jealousy and week four—in all its imperfection—scorned my attempts to create a perfect pot.

Still, at the end of every class, while waiting for the evening to wind down, I’ve snuck upstairs to a room with nothing but pots, books, and music and sat quietly soaking in the irony of the evening: So then here’s to a hobby gone wrong and an experience better than I could ever imagine.

Weather in the Northeast U.S.

Today, on January 31, 2012 at 2.50 p.m. I'm sitting outdoors, soaking in the sun, on this 64-degree-F day.

Unexpected and unbelievably welcome.

Monday Morning Ponderings

I seem to be going through some sort of a quarter-life crisis. A little late in the game for that, but here I am, lost and unsure of what I’d like to do with my professional life. Journalism is starting to lose its charm, and no other career has stepped in as a viable alternative. Naturally this is all a bit disconcerting. I’ve never questioned my career choice and I’m not at all amused that I have to start at this age. All I can do now is hope that this is just a phase that will quickly be replaced by a more appropriate (and seemingly more manageable) mid-life crisis.