winesoakedramblings – the blog of Vickie van Dyke

One of the things I love more than anything (up there with wine and chocolate and music and friendship) is brilliant writing. Of course there is much brilliant writing to be read, from Shakespeare to Tolstoy, to Elizabeth Gilbert (personal fave) to Leonard Cohen. From bloggers to songwriters to newspaper reporters to inspired clergymen (and women) to my own mother, there are thousands of brilliant writers among us.

But for me, what truly blazes my bonfire is when that brilliant writing makes sense of issues which far too often seem eternally non-sensical. Emotional issues. Relationship issues. Deep-seated, ever-broiling, universally-experienced heart issues. You know, the ones that we mere mortals are all most likely to sweep under the carpet because it is just too much damned work to confront them. When brilliant writing attacks sensitive topics unashamedly, ripping at them like hawk on roadkill until nothing is left but bloodstains and truth, that is what I love.

And when it comes from the most unexpected of places? What a divine treat!

This brings me to emotional pain. Not mine personally because these days, surprising as it is even to me, I am quite a happy camper. I’m talking about the emotional pain I see around me far too often. Typically attached to the freshly-dumped (and fresh can mean anything from a few weeks to several years). Because even though the dump-er may feels some remorse or guilt, they know their reasons for dumping. They are able on some level to intellectualize the experience which allows them to move forward, away from wherever they did not want to be, toward wherever they hope to go.

But that poor dumpee. The pain I see these people clinging to is like some kind of perverse life raft. They foolishly hang on, choosing grief and tears and despondency, sorrow, melancholy and then more pain because at least it makes them feel something. Isn’t that a lyric? “I’d rather feel hurt than nothing at all.”

Maybe a good line for a country song but in real life how about NO? How about you’d rather feel good again? How about you’d rather be happy? How about whatever (or whomever) is causing you that pain is not the only remedy for it? I mean really, that’s sort of narrow-minded thinking isn’t it? There are at least a thousand roads to happiness and chances are your pain-inducing past partner is not currently reading your map. Unless you’re just looking for a midnight quickie (like the song). And that is just another creepy life raft.

I have been both the dumper and the dumpee so I do have first-hand knowledge of how all this works. Which brings me to the brilliant writing.

My new friend Caroline has recently learned the tragic (not really) tale of my past decade (she read my autobiographical cookbook) and wrote these words in an email:

I love that you are so honest about yourself and what drives you. How many people hide behind a wall of excuses and extenuating circumstance for their infidelity? It’s very refreshing when someone actually takes responsibility for their actions and boy, you stand there straight and tall and say yes, I did it! My heart chose and I would rather trust its calling and step onto a new path with hope, than live my life in the shadow of that monumentally selfless act of giving up my dream.

The monumentally selfless act of giving up my dream. MY dream. Important word, because last time I checked we only get one life and if I don’t chase my dream, who will?

But, when eleven years ago I optimistically stepped onto that new path, choosing my heart and its calling, the object of my heart’s calling tripped over a mountain of foreseeable yet (for him) insurmountable problems. Yes sir, that is when I became the dumpee. Because when you can’t surmount a problem you dump it. And let me tell you when you have dumped (as I did) and upended many lives, and then been dumped by that same person for whom you dumped, the emotional pain shows up with a steamer trunk and pretty much moves into your guest room and locks the door.

And this is where Caroline (who calls herself ordinary, silly girl) really shines:

Emotional pain is a funny old thing isn’t it? It is made worse when we focus on it and yet that’s exactly what we do! Over and over. We don’t like it of course because it hurts us. Sometimes we can lose ourselves in temporary distraction to avoid it. It can be acute, all-consuming and then just disappear in a flash of its own lie, or it can be chronic and deep, lingering on, sometimes for a lifetime. It hides itself in our comfort and is a master of disguise, attaching itself to things we value. How we react to our pain can give it the power to be master over us, govern our choices, mislead us into thinking that its the most important aspect of our emotional well-being and we set our minds to making it go away. We are constantly try to vanquish it.

But … what if we say no? What if we let it stay, like a whining dog who keeps pawing at our legs. Let’s say you can put it on a leash and tie it to the chair. It’s still there being noisy and demanding, but now you can get on with other more important things. It can become a background noise as you get used to it and after awhile its presence stops bothering you. Eventually you can see it as a measure of the importance of something lost, something no more. It can now be embraced as a friend, a part of your regard, something that gives meaning and value to the events in your life.

Damn. This is brilliant stuff.

Because nobody expects you to banish your pain, ignore it, cover it up with makeup or ship it off to Alaska. When you’re hurting, you’re hurting. But I love this concept of tying it up. Taking control of it. Yes, you know it’s there, yes you know it’s probably hanging around for awhile and yes if you really feel the need you can go pet it anytime you like. But you are now in charge. And if you feel like it by golly you can just go do something else for awhile, knowing the pain will be there panting and whining the moment you need to scratch its ears.

This of course takes huge mental acuity. You cannot allow the pain to control your thoughts, your feelings, your actions and your responses. Many people think this is impossible. Many people (especially those in pain) assume that our feelings and our thoughts are just there. Nothing to be done. They just show up willy-nilly and take charge of our soul. We are at their mercy.

Nope. Put them all on that leash. Do it consciously. Do it every day consciously. It’s like working out at the gym. Pretty soon, if you do the work, you will be in charge of your pain.

And then YES that pain will become background noise and that is exactly what you want. You may never drown it out completely. Some pains are just persistent that way. But YOU will be the master because dammit you own the leash, you own the chair it’s tied to and you have all the food. Feed it or not, your call. Just don’t untie it.

Because you being in charge is the first step out of victim-hood. You being in charge is the first step to letting go of the pain and focusing instead on that exciting new road to happiness. It is there, trust me. There is always a new road to happiness. But you must be available for it.

Thank you, Caroline. Like I said … brilliant. Now let’s have some wine …

I recently came upon this quote from a man called Osho and found it quite compelling:
“The capacity to be alone is the capacity to love. It may look paradoxical to you, but it’s not. It is an existential truth: only those people who are capable of being alone are capable of love, of sharing, of going into the deepest core of another person–without possessing the other, without becoming dependent on the other, without reducing the other to a thing, and without becoming addicted to the other. They allow the other absolute freedom, because they know that if the other leaves, they will be as happy as they are now. Their happiness cannot be taken by the other, because it is not given by the other.”

Wow.

And I say “wow” because I fear that far too many of us confuse love with ownership. It happens in song (“Please be mine”), it happens in marriage (“To have and to hold”) and it happens in virtually every romantic relationship. Which is funny, because it does not happen in our other relationships. I don’t need to own my girlfriends to love them dearly. They can cheat on me all they want with any number of other girlfriends and I am fine with it. I don’t own my girlfriends and they don’t own me. But we do love each other.

Same with my son. Do I wish he stayed in better touch? Of course. Do I wish he came to visit more often? Indeed I do. Do I wish he coveted my company as much as I covet his? Yes indeedy once again. Do I love him and does he love me? Big time. And just because he is a young adult with many things other than Mommy occupying his brain cells in no way diminishes our mutual love. Because I don’t own him. And just to be clear, he does not own me either, which is why I had no problem moving two hours away from him. I figured our love could handle it.

And then I think about my ex-husband. I’m not sure if he loves me anymore or not. He was never the world’s most emotive individual and although we are civil and even cordial in our limited relations now (10 years post-divorce) I’m not sure if he still loves me.

I mean, seriously, why would he? I left him. For another man. That makes me horrible and untrustworthy and despicable and unworthy of his love, right?

Wrong.

Because that only makes me horrible and unworthy of his love if his love equates ownership. You see, I never ever even for a moment ever stopped loving that man. I just stopped wanting to make a life with him. I stopped wanting to be his and only his. The love was still there. But the desire to experience a different kind of love prevailed. This I am quite sure he knows.

So now we come to definitions. I mean, how many different kinds of love are there?

I have no clue. A million?

What I do know, however, is that once love exists … truly exists … it does not vanish and you cannot kill it. And if you are prepared to NOT confuse love with ownership, and if you are prepared to love without addiction, whether or not it is returned, then I do believe you will experience love in its truest form.

When we first split up, my ex gave me birthday cards and Christmas gifts and Easter flowers and Mother’s Day wishes. One year he forgot Mother’s Day but called that night (to discuss something kid-related) and at the end of the call I said “Don’t you have something else to say to me?”

Pause.

“Huh?”

“Today of all days, don’t you have something to say to me, the mother of your one and only child?”

“Oh my God, Vickie, sorry … Happy Mother’s Day!”

And I explained to him that he could rightfully ignore every other occasion on the calendar and I would understand buy Mother’s Day??? Seriously? He has one child and I am the mother of that one child. I think that deserves a little love.

After that special day, for several more years, I got a card or an email greeting or something.

Until this year. This year I got nothing.

And it made me sad to go unacknowledged by the father of my one and only child on Mother’s Day. Honest. I wasn’t expecting roses or a card or even stolen lilacs. Just an email. An acknowledgment.

Didn’t happen.

I’m not really sure why. I can speculate to the moon and back and I suppose I could even ask him but the one thing I cannot do his alter his definition of love. And if for some reason, after ten years and a seemingly blissfully happy union with his new woman he still equates his love for me with an ownership (or lack thereof) which somehow diminishes my importance as the mother of his one and only child – well who am I to argue? I can be sad. But who am I to argue?

So two things, folks:

#1 – All you divorced fathers out there – I don’t care how inhospitable your separation was or is, get over it and acknowledge the mother of your child(ren) on Mother’s Day. Teach your children love.

#2 – It is Father’s Day this Sunday. A part of me (you know, the normal part) wanted to ignore my son’s father the way he ignored me. But I didn’t. I mailed him a card. Real old-fashioned mail. And that card wasn’t a Father’s Day card but a “love” card. And that love card concluded with the immortal words “Love never ends.”

It doesn’t. And it won’t. Not for me.

Love is a verb.

I know it’s been said before, in poetry and song, but I would like to remind you that … love is a verb.

Okay so maybe I’m lying. Because love is actually also a noun, I know.

Love (noun): a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.

I guess that’s a thing, that love. And yet it’s really not. Because love is not some fluffy blob that lands on your head or floats in the ether or gets mailed in a card or thrown against a wall.

Love is a verb. It requires action.

Love (verb): to have a profoundly tender, passionate affection for (another person).

I’m sorry dictionary.com but I think your definition is shit. Because to love someone is not to have. To love someone is to do.

It’s all nice and fine to say “I love you” and to write “I love you” and to believe that you feel love but to really love you must do something which expresses that love. Which shows the object of your love in no uncertain terms that they are loved. Love requires action. Love requires proof.

Several years ago I was “in love” with a man who was still living with his wife. While his wife was involved in a relationship with my ex-husband. I know this sounds wacky but I’m not making it up. You see G and I fell in love (perfect expression by the way because falling usually involves injury) and we left our spouses. They were pretty devastated until a few weeks and many shared shoulders later they fell in love. With each other. So G and I are living together and they are both still occupying the matrimonial homes and eventually G gets all messed up and moves home because it was actually his dad’s house (long story) and as far as he could see it she (his ex) was going to have to move eventually.

Or not.

So he’s living there and she’s living there except for the nights that she is there because then he is with me and then on the nights that she is with my ex husband he it back at that old matrimonial home. It’s all pretty crazy but she apparently likes this set-up and so does he and also apparently so does my ex.

And then G comes to see me on those “off” nights and tells me that he loves me. “I love you, Vickie” he says. Over and over again. After well over a year of this nutty (yet apparently acceptable) set-up he loves me (he says) but he makes no move to change the set-up or his seemingly happy acceptance of this set-up or my daily incredulity that this set-up may never fucking end.

That was the first time it hit me.

Love is a verb. Doesn’t matter what you say or how many times you say it, if your actions don’t reflect those words they are just words. Empty blobs of verbal fluff, landing on your head. And G’s actions did not demonstrate love. At least not love for me.

More recently, I have encountered another “love is just a word” situation. And before I tell you that story, let me preface by saying I understand that friendships change and evolve through time and geography and sometimes you just bank that the love is there and trust that the love will be acted upon in some way sooner or later.

So I have this lovely friend – one of my true soul-mate friends – and in recent years circumstance has put a few miles between us. And that’s okay. Because what with internet and Facebook and emails and texting we can all stay connected to anyone, anywhere. And then my birthday comes … and goes … and not a word from this friend. Not a Facebook greeting, not am email, not a quick call and not an old-fashioned card in the mail.

Nada.

And I think Damn, she must be busy.

She is, this I know. Not too busy to post frequently on Facebook, mind you. Just too busy to remember my birthday.

And I truly believe that there are certain things you just remember when you are loving friends. A birthday is one of them.

She also was too busy to reply to a request I made via Facebook messaging. And so busy it took her a week to respond to an email I sent asking her to respond to the email.

However, when she did finally respond, she told me she loved me.

She does. I know this. And nothing that I have written here will change that love (I doubt she reads my blogs anyway) nor will it change the immense love I feel for her.

But love is a verb. And for me, it is not enough to know love. I want to feel love. I want to feel loved.

This goes for me and every relationship – my mother, my beau, my son, my friends – I want to feel loved. I honestly don’t think I’m over-greedy and I honestly believe I give at least as much as I hope to receive. But that ethereal fluffy blob of love that floats around the perimeter of my existence has never been and will never be enough. Love as merely a noun can be decidedly hollow.

Love as a verb is life’s greatest gift. To bestow it with action and receive it with acknowledgment (and gratitude) is the cog that makes every wheel turn.

At least my wheels.

G and I (obviously) did not last. I can say with a certain amount of shameful pride that I did everything I told him I would do to facilitate our new life together. I loved him completely and my actions spoke daily to that truth.

His actions also spoke daily – to his truth. And as it turns out, his truth had little to do with loving me.

Funnily enough, his ex and mine are still together. My guess is their love for each other has been acted upon, reenforced and further acted upon, year after year. Ten years to be exact. Good for them. And yes, she did finally leave the old family homestead, after G and I broke up and after G started bringing new ladies home. That must have been weird.

Ya think?

As for my long-lost friend, she is not really lost and I’m quite sure it will all work out. We’re not having sex which for whatever reason makes it less dramatic. Funny, isn’t it? Romantic love requires even more action that just regular ole love.

Hey, I didn’t make up the rules. And as far as I’m concerned my son can tell me loves me all he wants, and my family can tell me they love me all they want, and so can my friends and my fans and the man in the moon.

Fluffy blobs.

Because I need to be shown. I need action. I need proof.

Love is a verb.

John Mayer – “Love Is A Verb”

Love is a verb
It ain’t a thing
It’s not something you own
It’s not something you scream

When you show me love
I don’t need your words
Yeah love ain’t a thing
Love is a verb
Love ain’t a thing
Love is a verb

Love ain’t a crutch
It ain’t an excuse
No you can’t get through love
On just a pile of IOUS

Love ain’t a drug
Despite what you’ve heard
Yeah love ain’t a thing
Love is a verb
Love ain’t a thing
Love is a verb

So you gotta show, show, show me
Show, show, show me
Show, show, show me
That love is a verb

Yeah you gotta show, show, show me
Show, show, show me
Show, show, show me
That love is a verb

Love ain’t a thing
Love is a verb

I recently had an epiphany. The epiphany that we all hope to experience. That lightening flash where life’s purpose suddenly became clear to me and I completely understood the Universe in all its complexity. I realized my purpose, I comprehended my roll on this planet and I appreciated a fresh new approach to my existence.

I was in the bathroom at a Sheraton hotel, staring at myself in the 8X magnifying mirror and BAM!  There it was.

Life is like eyebrows.

I’m not kidding.

You see, that morning, in anticipation of an upcoming holiday, my eyebrows had been tinted. Dyed quite dark actually. Because my natural eyebrows are scant and very very light.  They used to be uber-blonde, now maybe they are gray. I’m not really sure.  What I do know is that if I don’t fill them in with my super-duper Anastasia (“Eyebrow-ist To The Stars!”) pencil, they are pretty much non-existent.  And I want them to exist.  I need them to exist.  I’m not a big fan of my eyebrow-less face.

And there they were, looking fabulous (even magnified), requiring not even the tiniest scribble from Anastasia, and I was ready to hit the beach makeup-less.  Yep, that was my plan.  No makeup all week long.  Just a sun-kissed face and magical eyebrows.

But I also knew in that very same instant that these shaggy little works of inspired artistry were fleeting. I rarely get more than ten days out of an eyebrow tinting.  Soon I would be back to Anastasia.  And daily refinement.

I smiled.  Because that’s when it hit me.

Life is like eyebrows. At that very moment in the Sheraton bathroom, cherishing my current eyebrows, knowing they would soon be gone but loving the fact that I had them now and would have them on that white sandy beach, my life became crystal clear.

Life is about moments.

Life is not about making plans and implementing them nor is it about desiring success and achieving it. Life is not about how skinny you are or whether your love-life is a swimming success and life is not about what kind of car you drive or whether the wrinkles on your face suddenly rival the cellulite on your butt in plenitude.

Life is about moments.

Life is about revelling in and marveling at as many moments as you possibly can.  That moment could be quite simple, like walking the dog in the morning sunshine and noticing sprouting buds. That moment could be walking the dog in the morning sunshine and not stepping in dog doo-doo that some other hound left in the middle of the path as a special treat for you. That moment might be watching your son sing an original song for 40 of your closest friends, knowing that each one of them is in turn surprised and then responsive to his gift.  That moment might be cooking dinner, wine in hand, as the sun sets in your backyard and your fabulous boyfriend sits at your bar, laughing.  And that moment might be knowing that when you wake up the next morning, he’ll be snoring next to you. That moment might be a Facebook post, a response to a Facebook post, a neighbour selflessly shoveling your snow or your own selfless act of kindness. That moment could be hot sweaty sex or quiet reflection … alone.

And that moment might even be that exact second that you look in that mirror and totally appreciate that – for THAT moment – you have eyebrows! For that moment you have two things that most people take for granted.  For that moment you don’t need makeup or eyebrow pencils or a tattoo artist (never!) or a new car. See what I mean? Moments are everywhere. All we need to do is embrace them.

At that moment, my eyebrows made me happy.

Silly?

Eye-opening (pardon the pun)?

Because from now on I am on the lookout for moments. When they arrive – and as it turns out, the more you look out for them, the more often they arrive – I will embrace them fully.  With every ounce of gratitude I possess.

Thank you eyebrows.

Thank you lack of eyebrows.

And thank you Anastasia …

Have you ever noticed how most people spend far too much time making excuses instead of making amends? I’ve never been able to figure out why that is, especially when a simple and heartfelt apology would do the trick instantly and put you back on the road to happiness. 

1. We dummies would rather explain and justify and defend and excuse than just say “You know what? I was wrong. Big fat wrong. Sorry.”

And it really doesn’t matter what the situation is.  Whether in a romantic relationship, at work, with your kids or even people you don’t know, sorry does seem to be the hardest word (sorry about that).

It’s a lesson I taught my son the hard way.  At least hard for me.  But in the end, awesome. You see, he and I were on a little road trip and I got pulled over for speeding. My son was about 10 years old and this was the first time we had ever been in any way involved with an officer of the law.  I could tell my baby was scared.  Hell, I was scared (although he did look mighty fine in those motorcycle boots).  I was scared because I knew I was GUILTY!

The cop approached my open window.  I thrust both hands out at him and said dramatically “Cuff me now, sir. I know I have sinned!” 

A huge grin enveloped his face as I continued sheepishly “So how fast was I going?”

He told me.

And that, my friends, was that.  I apologized profusely, promised I would never speed again and that lovely man let me off with a warning.  My son was relieved (so was I) and my son was instantly smarter.  Because he saw – in action – the power of accountability.  And contrition. 

A few weeks later, my sister got pulled over on her way to work.  At the time she was a high school principal and as such regaled the officer with meaningful tales of her importance and the necessity that she get to school post haste. 

“Fine,” answered he dryly.  “Leave earlier and don’t speed.” 

And he gave her a ticket.

See how it works?  If you have done wrong, whatever that wrong is, admit it.  Just make sure your apologies are true.  There’s nothing worse than a sarcastic “Sorreeeeee” through clenched teeth.

But most important – be accountable!  Take ownership of your mistakes.  Acknowledge them.  Own up big time.  Because the truth is, you owning up is the only way the person you have offended (be it cop, judge, lover, friend or co-worker) can get closure.  And once they get it, they will give it to you.

Well at least most times.

I try daily to practice what I preach.  This means I also apologize daily.  Well … pretty much.

As for my son – many years after the cop incident he attended a summer camp where each section was required to make a presentation about something meaningful.  Meaningful to their peers and fellow-campers and meaningful in the grand scheme of life.

The camp director was quite pleased to inform me that my son had suggested his section’s theme, and that it was a good one.

Accountability. I was one damn proud mama. 

And I still thank that cop … and that moment.  Because he taught me a huge life lesson which I was able to share with my boy.  Not only that, but the next time I got pulled over for speeding, I did the exact same thing …

Here it is, my birthday eve once again, and I thought I’d better check in. Then I thought maybe I’d just post the blog I wrote last year because it still rings true. All of it. And then I started thinking about denim overalls.

Listen, nobody ever said my brain was normal.

You see, for the past few months I have been coveting denim overalls. I loved them the first time they became fashionable (in my teens?) and I loved then the 2^nd time they were in vogue (early 40s?) and I just have this sneaking suspicion they are coming back again. Have you seen Sarah Jessica Parker flaunt hers? And Prince Harry’s new girlfriend? These chicks are fashionistas and they are sporting denim overalls once again.

And now, by golly, so am I. And not baggy old Lees either. The new denim overalls are a little sleeker, a little sexier and a little distressed. I’m not sure about sleek and sexy but the distressed part works quite well with my new old body so we’re all good.

I may have mentioned before that I like to celebrate a full birthday week and in that spirit my first little wingding took place a few nights ago. There was music, wine, great food and many of my favorite women, gathered at my home to make merry and revel in the fact that I am older than most of them. And yeah, I wore my new overalls. There were titters and giggles and I’m pretty sure a few raised eyebrows but here’s the thing: I don’t care.

I do care to be youthful. Joyously, unabashedly youthful as I get propelled kicking and screaming (in my new denim overalls) into another fabulous year of life. In this day and age there are many things available to make us LOOK younger. Botox, fillers, laser treatments, facelifts, hair dye, makeup, denim overalls and younger men.

But the real trick is to FEEL younger. ACT younger. BE younger. And although I will admit that I am quite sure my denim overalls help, I’m pretty sure I owe my current youthfulness to my attitude. Not my wardrobe.

I love young people, I love listening to them, hanging out with them, understanding their music, talking their language and hearing their thoughts. I think I love all of this because, even though I am a parent, I remember being that kid. I remember being confused and scared and hopeful and excited.

Guess what? I am still all those things. Every day brings new confusion, new fear, new hope and new excitement. And that’s what keeps me youthful.

I come by it honestly. When my grandmother died, just after her 103^rd birthday, I realized that she was exactly the same. She used to sit in her wheelchair, in the front lobby of her senior’s residence, wearing a dress and pearls, EVERY SINGLE DAY. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for someone to walk through those doors. Waiting for another fantastic slice of life to present itself to her.

I am the same. I choose to be the same.

I like to believe that I am succeeding. Sure I could eat less and work out more, in the hope of rediscovering my former physique. I could rob a bank and get a facelift. I could wear makeup when I’m out running errands or walking the dog and I could pretend to actually like rap.

Probably not going to happen.

But as I looked over the birthday cards that my wonderful women brought me earlier this week, I was near brought to tears by my friend K. She is 26. Her mother is younger than I am. And on her card she wrote “I think of you as being my age”.

Here’s the kicker K – so do I.

We are equal friends. I’m not her therapist of her surrogate mother or her wacky pseudo aunt. We met (through her mother) and we became friends. And now we are friends. And that’s just that.

I’m pretty sure she thought my new denim overalls were rockin’. I mean, last summer she went out on a date and I leant her my cool and rockin’ denim jacket. That’s what friends are for.

So tonight, as I celebrate my birthday eve, I will embrace every youthful fibre of my being. I will look forward to several more decades of youthfulness. And I will wear my new denim overalls with pride. And joy.

I will also kiss my younger boyfriend, put on some lip gloss and start saving for that facelift. Because I plan to wear those new denim overalls for a very long time. I might need the face to go with them.

And by the way, those overalls are “Material Girl”. Created by Madonna and her daughter. For teens.

I am laughing. And very, very happy to be celebrating another birthday.

C. P. Snow, the English Novelist and scientist, once wrote:

“The pursuit of happiness is a most ridiculous phrase; if you pursue happiness you’ll never find it.” 

In my humble opinion, old C.P. was dead wrong.

Abe Lincoln once said “Folks are usually about as happy as they make their minds up to be.” 

In my humble opinion, Abe was right on the money. 

Not that I believe we need to chase after happiness, but I do believe we have to create circumstances which allow us to be available for happiness.  That’s right – available for happiness. 

Unfortunately creating those circumstances very often requires conscious thought, action and effort. This means you must DO something. You must get unstuck from a life (or situation) which is holding you back. You must move forward. You must set yourself on a journey towards happiness, remembering all the while that it truly is the journey that counts. There is no “happy destination”. There are only moments of happiness every day. The goal is to secure as many of these as possible. 

And how can you do that if you are not available? 

What the heck is she talking about now, you may ask. I don’t blame you. It took me a long time, many years, many tears and a whole lot of wine to realize that I was not available for happiness. 

What I eventually had to do was examine my life and decide in which areas I was available for happiness and in which areas I was not. 

Kinda like my friend S. She was stuck in a loveless, sexless, friendship-less marriage for well over five years. But she stayed for the kids. She was miserable, she was frustrated and she was horny but she stayed for the kids.  

Was she available for happiness? 

Then there was C. C hated her job and most of the people she worked with. She dreaded going in to the office and she called in sick a lot. But she needed the money so she didn’t quit. She was miserable, frustrated and actually truly ill for many months. 

Was she available for happiness? 

And finally there’s V. V is single and lonely and desperately wishes to date and fall in love yet she sits at home most evenings watching TV and refuses to even consider on-line dating because it must be full of wackos and perverts and it just plain scares her.  

Is V available for happiness? 

And then there’s me. I was married to a lovely man for many years. He was (still is) a great guy and he provided me with a great life. The Pepsi commercial life. But in reality we enjoyed little passion, little emotional connection and few common interests. I was increasingly felled with a nagging sense of unfulfillment but in spite of my frequent crying jags on the kitchen floor, I was paralyzed. I could do nothing. Because intellectually I felt I had no right to be unhappy. Most women would have killed to enjoy the lifestyle I did. The nice-guy husband. The trips, the trappings and the ease. 

I just wanted something else. No.  I needed something else.

I found that something else in the arms of another man. Except it turns out I actually didn’t. What I found was something different, something momentarily distracting and something which looked a whole lot like the REAL THING to me but in the end was just another diversion. Another attempt to find happiness when I was still not available for it. Because my new relationship was built on the pain of the old one shattering and that was guilt I could not process. Or as it turns out, handle. 

The new relationship ended and I suddenly found myself man-less, moving into yet another new home, scared shitless and heartbroken. The tears were coming fast and furious and far too often. And in the midst of that move, one of my so-called friends asked me sardonically “Well Vickie … are you happy now?” 

And as I wiped away my tears I answered, totally honestly, “No. No I am not. But I am available for happiness.” 

And that was the BIG ONE. I was finally in a place where happiness was a real potential because I was finally un-stuck. I was finally being honest with myself and the rest of the world. I was finally ready … to be happy. All that hurt and upheaval and change and trauma lead to that incredibly blissful moment when I looked in the mirror watching mascara drip down my face and I said “Baby, you may be fucking miserable right now but you are ready to get happy.” 

Albert Camus once wrote “But what is happiness except the simple harmony between a man and the life he leads?” 

Right on Albert!  Because you must be in harmony with your life, with no secrets, no hidden agendas and no unresolved predicaments in order to become available for happiness. Everything else is just a bandaid. The drink might help, the new shoes might help, the trip south might help and the affair might help. But only for a moment.  

Allan K. Chalmers says The Grand Essentials of happiness are:  Something To Love, Something To Do and Something To Hope For

I agree.  Go ahead – fill in your own blanks. 

And then try this little exercise: Write down three BIG things that you believe make (or will make) you happy. Then ask yourself (and don’t lie!) – are these things happening in your life RIGHT NOW? And if they are not, are they at least available to you?  Or are you stuck? 

Don’t lie. 

Because as Wayne Dyerr once said – You believe that people or things make you unhappy but this is inaccurate. You make yourself unhappy. 

“The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make heaven of Hell, and a hell of Heaven.” (John Milton) 

Whatever the status of your current life, it’s up to YOU to get the ball rolling. Rolling toward happiness. You can do this like I did, falling into the process haphazardly through bad timing, bad choices and unfortunate circumstances. Or you can CHOOSE RIGHT NOW to make your own heaven out of whatever personal hell you may be experiencing. YOU make the choice, YOU take the necessary actions, YOU do the work. 

My friend S ultimately realized that her kids were no happier than she was being a part of a fully dysfunctional family. She told her husband the marriage was over. He gave her daily grief about money, housing, custody – you name it. It was every bad scenario she ever imagined. EXCEPT she kept has her eye on the prize – freedom from imprisonment and the availability for love … real love in her definition … and real happiness. And you know what? Soon after S came to this decision and acted upon it, she met a lovely man. She is now 20 lbs lighter, she is in love and she is looking forward with HOPE. Once she created availability, she created heaven out of hell.

C was so miserable at her job she was finally let go … ostensibly due to corporate downsizing but she knew it was because her boss didn’t like her (and her constant whining).  Initially she was humiliated and devastated and angry. Then she realized this was truly a blessing in disguise because now she could find a job that would bring her satisfaction. She altered her mindset to embrace the positive, sent out a million resumes and knocked on a million doors until she got her dream job. The situation may have been thrust upon her, but the availability to turn it into something wonderful was her choice. She created heaven out of hell. 

And V finally overcame her fear of on-line dating and allowed a friend to set her up on a site. Within days she was emailing and instant messaging and going out on meet-and- greets. She still hasn’t found ‘the one’ but she is having a damn good time, both at home (on-line) and out on her dates.  And she has rediscovered hope and thus, made herself available for happiness. 

So if you’re unhappy you have two choices. Do nothing and wait and hope. Or create availability for whatever you think or know will make you happy. 

I became available for happiness at a huge cost. But ya know what?  It was worth it.  

Because … I am.