I just read an article about happiness. It said (my words now) that when we are young, happiness comes in explosive bursts. Like when I gave my niece her first i-phone. She spun and squealed and came within an inch of joyful hyperventilation. Later in life we find happiness in a more comfortable and tame form. Like when you slip between freshly laundered sheets with a little smile.
Or when you walk on a luxurious rug? Or come into a room that has that je ne sais pas gesthalt (if I were to bandy about international terms). Isn’t there a roundness to the happiness you feel looking at a piece of art that you’ve chosen?
I’d like to think that when we get to a certain age, our happiness relies more on the beautiful things we surround ourselves with and less on those hyper-intense surprises that life tosses our way. As we move into that realm, we appreciate the feel of real wood, the colors of natural dyes, the quality of hand loomed textiles.
The goal then is to fill our lives with the items that give us a little pleasure in every day. Unless of course, Santa should bring me a Himalayan Cashmere scarf – I really might jump for joy.