Let me start by apologising for my recent absenteeism. I’ve been navigating through some [more] major life changes, but rest assured my personal journal (the one I don’t broadcast on the Internet) is bursting at the seams.
At any rate, I’m here now and, as usual, I’ve got something to say.
For years, I’ve been fascinated by positive psychology. Those who know me might think this a bit odd, and for good reason: up until recently, I proudly sported a Pessimist badge on my sleeve. What business does someone who sees the glass as half empty have poking her nose around something so gosh darn positive?!
I’m a big fan of those elusive “right place at the right time” moments, and Sunday delivered in a big way.
DISCLAIMER: I’m about to get uncomfortably real here for a second. Bear with me.
Today, I am not okay.
In fact, I feel about as far from okay as a person can get.
I’m homesick for a place that’s 14,397 kilometers away; I’m struggling to sleep and eat; and I’d like nothing more than to give the world and my new ten-second rule a callous middle finger.
Should I really be blogging then, if I’m feeling this disconnected from myself? Yes, for two reasons.
Originally, I planned to title this post “Ten Seconds to Happy,” but later on I make reference to one Ms. Kimmy Schmidt, and the jarring visual of a salty stick of meat draped in crinoline was too good to pass up. (Titus, you legend.) And besides, I’ve been hard at work channeling strength and self-love, so a metaphor for tough and beautiful seemed apropos.
So here’s the thing: happiness is only ten seconds away. Less, even. This might sound farfetched, but neuroscience and Netflix suggest otherwise.
As I’ve mentioned before, a writer’s homework is reading.
Since moving to Australia, I made the conscious decision to incorporate more Australian literature into my homework routine. This also doubles as a measure of my cultural competency: where once I used to trip over “textas” and “trackie dacks,” I’ve now mastered many of Australia’s colloquialisms. (I think) thats a good thing.
At the recommendation of one of my housemates, I dove into Jennifer Down’s Our Magic Hour, an aerial view of life after loss.
In an exchange between the protagonist, Audrey, and her partner, Nick, Audrey is scolded with a hard-hitting metaphor:
“Your religion is other people’s happiness. It’s absurd.”