February 1999

If you ever run across a movie called The Making of An American Quilt, I suggest you pick it up.

It’s basically a story about a quilting club and the women who meet regularly over the years to make quilts together. When the grand-daughter of one of them gets engaged, they decide to make a quilt on the theme of love: what it means to each of them. As the story unfolds, we see that love means very different things to each person. Like a tapestry of multi-colored threads, the meaning of love is as varied as there are people who love. This movie came to mind recently because I discovered another emotion that is as varied, perhaps more so.

I always thought that happiness was an over-rated emotion. I had thought that people who made a habit of asking, “Are you happy?” were being awfully trite. “Happiness” brought to mind bumper stickers and inane posters of the type, “Happiness is a wet nose hug from my dog.” I was beyond such frivolities.

I, of course, saw things from a “deeper” perspective. To anyone who brought up the light-weight “happiness” idea, I would patiently explain that what I sought in life was experience. I used the image of an opened door; one couldn’t keep polluted air out while inviting clean air in, so, I reasoned, if one is to be open to experience, then one must put up with some “unhappiness” in life. A grand idea – until I heard a better one.

Recently, a late supper and two bottles of huang jiu were helpful in getting a few friends to philosophize on our ideas of “happiness.” The most inquisitive guest at the table asked everyone, “What does happiness mean to you?”

At the discussion was an artist. “To be moved, that’s what makes me happy,” he said. Simple.

“But it’s hard to be moved anymore,” he qualified. “When I was at the university in Beijing, we had nothing. A friend wrote two lines of poetry that I wanted to hear. But we had no phone, and of course, no fax. So I had to go by bus, and walk, and it took me two hours to get to him. But when I heard those two lines, I was moved and I was happy,” he reminisced. “Today, I wouldn’t take the time. I may not read it right away even if he faxed it to me.”

My glib response to the original question would have been, “Happiness is feeling cold milk going down the pipe on a hot summer day.” But at that moment, it seemed the joke was on me. I, who grew up in a culture that guarantees every person the inalienable right of the “pursuit of happiness”, never thought about what happiness meant to me.

“One of my school friends from those days is now a well-known director,” the artist continued. “He’s married to a beautiful wife, has five Mercedes and lives anywhere he likes. He asked me if I was happy because he isn’t. I tell him I’m happy, sure. But not like we were 15 years ago.” This was not reminiscing about the good old days; this was the soul’s yearning to feel light again.

“Happiness to me is working, because in my job I get to give something to society,” another friend chimed in.

Perhaps it was the warm liquor, perhaps it was the small cozy alcove that we were sitting in, but I realized a simple truth: the meaning of happiness is as unique to each person as their fingerprint. Or is it?

If the answer to what makes us happy is so varied, then why do so many of us pursue so few goals? People who claim to live for happiness spend entire lives focused on making money, finding love, getting famous or accumulating power. If these things could make us happy, then why do so many of the rich and famous drink themselves to death or worse, commit suicide? How many of us stop to think what makes us happy? I hadn't.

Okay, so I had a problem with the door thing; this seems to explain my own confusion about happiness. During the last few years, I’ve managed to open a few small businesses that, while not making me a millionaire, have been pretty successful. At times, I have felt proud or satisfied, but they have not made me particularly happy.

“I’m happy when I’m being myself,” the inquisitive one volunteered. “But how many people know who they are?” I asked. Perhaps this is the key then, that happiness is not a “right” or a feeling that you get from “having” but something we must define for ourselves.

Once the bill was paid and we’d gathered our coats to leave, I realized that I had not actually said what made me happy. Having spent much of my past asking, “Why aren’t I happy?" rather than, "What makes me happy?" I'm somewhat new to this defining game.

But so far, I think happiness is to be light. No, not the Oprah diet kind, but the willingness-to-let-go type. Letting go of excess control, emotions, and yes, even expectations. If I can welcome whatever happens with an open mind, then I'll be happy.

“But are you happy!?” you may ask. Getting there, I would answer, because it is a process.