Have you noticed that only in time of illness or disaster or death are people real?
— Walker Percy, The Moviegoer
“If only we’d stop trying to be happy,” Edith Wharton is supposed to have said, “we could have a pretty good time.” She didn’t really say it — it’s a bastardization of something she put in the mouth of a character in one of her books — but it’s well worth repeating anyhow.
We — that is to say, humanity, or at least that portion of it that is subjected on a daily basis to the relentless inveiglements of consumer culture — work hard at being happy. Ideally, we hold down jobs, meet the basic needs of our families and ourselves, worship in the places of our choice (or choose not to worship), take vacations, indulge ourselves in the occasional luxury, become involved in groups or activities that spark our interests or fire our passions.
So why aren’t we happy? Or, more in keeping with the theme of this piece, such as it is, why is it that we have to work so hard at it? Why don’t we take more time to appreciate the people, places and things that make us happy? Why do we so often seem so neglectful of the here and now, so incapable of living in the moment — particularly when the moment is one in which we find ourselves to be, even if only for the moment, happy?
Now, having said all this, I will tell you that, on the whole, I’m a pretty joyful guy. I love my city and my work in it. I cherish the opportunities that I have so very close at hand to educate and entertain and amuse — not to mention express — myself. I have two great kids, a loving and supportive family, a tight circle of close friends and a broad and ever-growing network of associates and acquaintances. I am grateful for what I have and am not provoked to envy by that which I have not.
Still, I struggle — at times mightily so — to live in the present. To be present in my own life and those of the people I love, and for whom I have some responsibility. Reflecting on the peaks and valleys of the past, and contemplating the heights or depths of the future — both have their place, but both can be a distraction, if not an outright pestilence, eating away at time and attention that would be better spent on interacting with what is in immediately in front of us. Therein lies the real opportunity of living — and, perhaps, the ultimate debt we owe for this life with which we have been gifted.
Or so it seems to me, especially after the several days I spent just prior to writing this column. Between the morning of Thursday the 10th and the night of Monday the 14th, I drove a total of exactly 1,400 miles, from my home in downtown Birmingham to Chicago by way of Louisville, and back by roughly the same route.
Maybe it was just because I don’t manage to get out of Birmingham, or at least Alabama, enough, but I didn’t see anything that wasn’t beautiful. Northward through the hills and hollows of Tennessee and Kentucky, across the Indiana prairie — which, by the way, is dotted by vast wind farms, a striking and sometimes mesmerizing sight from the interstate, the big blades atop skinny poles that often stretch as far as the eye can see on both sides — and on into Illinois and the big city, the landscape always had something to offer.
I don’t know why it is that I’m more aware of my feelings about America than when I’m on the open road, but there is something about a vast field of wildflowers, or the view down a river gorge, or a farm — house, barn, silo, furrowed fields — set against a mountainside lit by the setting sun that makes me think we may yet have greatness in us. Likewise, there’s something about the feel of a great American city that speaks to my affinity for history and causes me to reflect on the forces that made it so. Nashville, Louisville, Indianapolis, Chicago — even in passing, they have an energy that is palpable and, each in its own way, uniquely American.
The purpose of all of this driving was a reunion of sorts with four friends from college — one I picked up at his home in Louisville and two brothers who flew in from Texas to meet and stay with the family of our friend who lives in Chicago. I hadn’t seen the Texas contingent since college, or our host in roughly 25 years, but after the initial — and mercifully brief — rundown of marriages, kids and jobs, we picked up pretty much where we left off all those years ago.
We saw the White Sox play the Twins. We took a guided boat tour along the Chicago River to see some of the buildings that made Chicago an architectural mecca. We enjoyed a fine meal and accompanying libations in an old Irish bar on the Northside that happened to be full of Notre Dame fans who went joyously — and quite endearingly —nuts when the Irish scored a late winning touchdown in the game on television.
And we laughed. And laughed. And laughed. We laughed at old stories of times we shared and people we knew in the wildness of youth, we laughed at our respective triumphs and travails, we laughed our way from one side of Chicago to the other.
Not that having fun is contrary to any of our characters, then or now. But this laughing was better than most, due to both the length of the friendships involved and what we might term the proximate cause of our little reunion, which is that one of our number is facing up to a serious health crisis.
Actually, “facing up” doesn’t do justice to the way our buddy Kent is approaching this thing. Confronted with a prognosis that, at the very least, has disrupted life as he has known it, Kent is responding the way that I’d like to think I would — with great good humor, quiet dignity and a sort of hopeful fatalism that manifests in an attitude of living each day for what it is. There are good ones, there are bad ones, there are ones you spend with people who have meant something to you, who have added to your enjoyment and appreciation of this strange and wondrous journey — who know you and love you anyway, as the old folks used to say.
But they are all days, and they are ours to expend. Kent has internalized that fact in a way that we all should, and without having a health problem hit us between the eyes. He is fully present in his existence now, focused on the things that are important, appreciative of not only each new experience that comes his way, but of the quotidian blessings of life. He is glad to be here.
So am I. I just wish I did a better job of remembering it sometimes. Remembering that too much focus on the pursuit of happiness can cause us to miss its flowering and fruits. Remembering to stop worrying about finding happiness and just have a good time.