The Sunday Letter #14: The dot theory of happiness
The Sunday Letter #14: The dot theory of happiness
Last weekend, I went to Wales. I have friends from Edinburgh who live there now—they lived in Denmark for a time, while he taught film editing at a school, and now they’re back in Cardiff, where she grew up. They have two kids and a beautiful house and a garden in a sleepy little suburb just outside of the city. It was five days of paradise. We went into town one day and walked through the outdoor shopping arcades, visited the market, then sat and ate pizza in the courtyard of Cardiff Castle. Then on another day we took the kids to several playgrounds and walked around the lake. There was an Italian food truck parked along the lake walkway and we bought fresh donuts covered in sugar. As we stood outside of the truck waiting for the donuts to fry, I felt a sliver of perfect happiness. The kind that says I am safe, and there are good things ahead.
It’s the kind of sliver that came so rarely in the first two years or so after Jess died. But it has come more often now, in these third and fourth years since she’s been gone. And every time it comes it’s attached to something small and unassuming.
Given that your entire day can be filled with small and unassuming moments at times, I suppose it’s no wonder that my days feel tucked to the brim with riches.
Last week, a few days before I left for Wales, I went out to West Sands beach. I went there a fair amount during my first few weeks in St. Andrews, but I’ve been less often as the month went on and the weather got colder and miserable. The day that I went was also a day where the moon was fairly bright, so I knew I wouldn’t see much, and I almost talked myself out of going. But I went, and I even managed to a) spot the Big Dipper, and b) get a medicore photo of the Big Dipper, so it felt like a big success.
I think I found Polaris, too—you find it in the Little Dipper, in relation to the Big, like this—but those pictures didn’t turn out. I’ll have to go back later this month, when the sky is clear and the moon is new, to find it again.
Walking on that West Sands beach in the dark (thanks for the flashlight, iPhone!) and looking up at the stars—even washed out as they were by the moon—was another moment of quiet happiness. The kind that says I am glad, so glad, to be here. Nothing spectacular happened—there were no shooting stars, most of the other stars were difficult to see, and after I got my mediocre photo I walked back to my little St. Andrews apartment and went to bed. But it was wonderful. At one point when you’re walkng back to town from the West Sands you walk across a part of the Links golf course, and it was pitch dark and silent and I felt like a ghost, but in a good way. Just another soul going about their business.
The first time I remember feeling this way—surprised by happiness, as though it was an old friend who’d disappeared and then reappeared when I was least expecting it—was in the spring of 2022. I had a quiet domestic weekend at home. I walked the dog. I made good food. I oiled my cutting boards and then I seasoned my cast iron pan, activities that I love doing because of how tactile and mindful they are. I wrote a little. I slept. I vacuumed. And the whole time I floated around my house and thought, I didn’t know happiness was possible again, but here it is. And I am happy, and nothing special is happening! Which means that happiness is possible anywhere, and at any time, because nothing special happens *most* of the time!
It’s the same principle that underlines mindfulness training. Happiness is washing the dishes. Happiness is drinking tea. Happiness is watering the garden. All of these tiny, mundane tasks that litter our lives.
Jess and I had a theory that was similar, but slightly different, to this. We called it the Dot Theory of Happiness. The basic idea was that happiness is like a dot painting—or pointillism, if you’re an art major. When you look at a pointillist drawing from far away, you see only the wider picture. But when you get closer, you see that what looks like one thing is actually made up of thousands of distinct little dots. Red colour transforms into red dots up close, with white holding the space all between them.
We talked about happiness like this. As something that wasn’t constant but was instead sprinkled throughout the day. And it’s only when you look back that it all seems to blend together into one cohesive whole.
I was happy then.
I am not happy now.
But maybe, what you are is happy in a small, insignificant moment that fades quickly from your memory. Maybe you were happy in that instant of waiting for your fresh donuts to come from Franco, helming his food truck.
“Canada?” he said. “Ah! The wheat for my flour—” and he reached over onto a shelf in his truck and pulled off a bag— “the wheat for my flour comes from Manitoba! And then it is ground in Italy. It is good wheat, this! Very good wheat!”
Maybe the trick isn’t to wait for the comets or be disappointed when you walk out under a large black sky over the ocean and only faintly see the stars. Maybe the trick is to try and remember those insignificant moments that at the time feel like nothing.
Maybe it isn’t even about stepping back and trying to see the overall painting, but appreciating each nondescript dot in the painting for exactly what it is. A perfect red dot! A perfect moment that doesn’t need to lead to anything else, or carry the heavy responsibility of pushing grief away.
After I got back from Cardiff on Tuesday, I got felled by a migraine. I forgot my medication at home and the Advil I did bring just doesn’t cut it, so most of the last 48 hours has been me, floating around from the bedroom to the bathroom to the bedroom again like some kind of creature from the bog. It’s not the worst of situations but it isn’t the best either. It does, however, make those first few moments of diminished pain as I begin to recover stand out with a kind of vivid clarity. Who knew the simple act of gliding through the house could feel so sweet.
There are so many moments in the day like this now, in a way that felt impossible for a really long time. The grief door that led me to Buddhism and this wholly different life has also led me to unexpected treasures. Simple treasures. Treasures that surround me every day, everywhere I look.
I’ll talk more about Cardiff and other things later this week, when the Sunday Letter (I hope) resumes its regular schedule. In the meantime, here’s to magic in the smallest of things.
Currently Reading: The Mabinogion, translated by Lady Charlotte Schreiber
Currently Watching: S2 of Slow Horses, aka Dead Lions
Currently Eating: a Granny Smith apple and builder’s tea, which seems about the only thing my migraine-recovering stomach can…stomach…at the moment.