The Pursuit of Happiness

Old age can be a bit of a thud, like a shoe dropping until it doesn’t drop anymore. It hits the floor and the thud announces that you’re old. Then you lay under the bed peering out through dust bunnies. A grander old-age metaphor is that of an eagle landing at the top of a majestic tree, then surveying his flight from baby’s nest to the present roost. Wouldn’t it be marvelous if every life were an eagle’s flight rather than a shoe dropping?

I’m afraid I’ve been a shoe, now an old one lying sideways under the bed. That sounds ordinary compared to lives that have soared. But I remember the steps taken in that shoe, a lot of them uphill or spent circling a gristmill, yet the walk seems worthwhile to me, even as the soles have come undone from the shoes. They gape open like a smile; my shoes are smiling and I am smiling.

I don’t know why so many people seem unhappy and afraid these days. Are they disappointed because life hasn’t been an eagle’s flight? Are their shoes too tight? Is the walk all uphill, head down and butt up? Or, do they walk with their eyes cast towards the ground and miss seeing the world unfold every morning like a hand opening up?

The unhappiest man I know rents empty space to fill up with all his extra stuff, but he’s mad as hell at people who get food and medicine, stuff that isn’t extra, from the government. He’s fond too, of saying – shouting really – that freedom isn’t free, but moans and rages about paying taxes. He’s never fought in a war, or even worn a uniform, but knows everything there is to know about how a well regulated-militia operates. And though he’s done well over the past eight years, at least financially, he can’t stop complaining about them; he works overtime at being indignant and has a long list of society’s offenders.

Among the things I am grateful for is that I haven’t walked in this man’s shoes. They’ll make a dull thud when they hit the floor.